Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ Reflections ❯ Waiting Game ( Chapter 20 )

Reflections:

Chapter 20: Waiting Game

 

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:

Yes, yes… I know this has been a long time coming. No, I haven't abandoned the story. If I believe my outline, I have four more chapters to go.

 

Thanks for getting this one beaten into shape go to Kelly for spotting the most embarrassing typo (stir-flying) and for listening to my plot ranting; Gay for murdering excess commas and for fighting off the swarming hyphens; Teresa for oodles of suggestions (some pornographic, but hey, what are friends for?); and Lita, Shay, Gillian and Beysie for not letting me forget that I promised to write this monster. Encouragement is always a good thing. And thank you to the kind people who reviewed when I last posted. I hope you haven't given up on the story.

 

And a quick comment on ratings before I shut up and get on with the chapter. I've never made any pretense that Reflections was a fluffy fic. people don't become assassins without it staining their souls, and yaoi is not everyone's cup of tea. While 20 is a comparatively kind and gentle chapter, the remainder of this story won't be. If you're an adult, you can make your own decisions, and if you're not, you shouldn't be here in the first place.

 

But I do hope that you'll enjoy the journey.

 

L.A. Mason

 

 

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

 

 

What a fucked up mess…

 

Ken was more than a little shocked to find Aya waiting, perched on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees and head in his hands. Without preamble, the drooping man said, “I'm sorry. I really fucked that up. Maybe… maybe… sometimes… you're right.”

 

Maybe it was the shock of hearing his own thoughts echoed by someone who practically never showed human weakness, let alone apologized, but Ken felt his mouth dropping open. “Wha…” Halting just within the door, Ken forced himself to be silent, to let Aya speak on his own. And, still addressing the floor, the man continued softly without pausing for breath, mangling handfuls of short, fly-away hair as he did so. “I am so screwed up, Ken, and I don't know how to find my way back. When I woke up, back with all of you, I think I maybe was Himura Kenshin, for a little while. I- it was so much easier, than what I'd been… and I couldn't let those guys catch me, keep asking those same damned questions over and over… when I didn't have any answers. I've been… broken… for so long, I don't know what normal is like anymore. I guess I was like this the day I met you… dreaming of my sister.” The harsh voice ground to a stop, too exhausted to continue. Except that it did, now bleak and soulless, “I thought that it would be enough, that to Kritiker, Weiss doesn't matter. It exists to finish missions, without thought to the risks entailed…”

 

Or the shame, or the degradatio, Ken added silently, his gaze fixed on the bowed head. He understood. He'd taken the missions, let them strip away his humanity… all to save other people.

 

Even though there was no one to save them.

 

A soft, frustrated sigh escaped him. Once again, when faced with the reality of Aya, his resolve had crumbled, and he'd begun thinking like a human being with a future. Every effort the ex-jock made to stop caring went astray the second his brain fixated on the shaken redhead; Ken might stop caring what happened to himself, but there was no way that he could shut off what he felt for Aya…

 

Not for Abyssinian, an assassin who wouldn't " couldn't " kill.

 

For Aya.

 

“Yeah…” he agreed rustily. Ken swallowed hard. For a moment, the vision of himself, standing in front of that damned mirror with Aya's hands on him, swam in his brain, and he swayed dizzily. But in the next instant, he grabbed the memories of sex and sweat and crammed them down into a back corner where they couldn't do any harm.

 

Gods, but he wanted the red head, body and soul.

 

It was stupid; it was beyond stupid. Sex wasn't the answer to a damned thing, it was just a way of releasing the needs in his body, and hadn't he always known that?

 

Hadn't he always known that his heart wouldn't be satisfied with crumbs when it yearned for the whole banquet?

 

Heavily, Ken dropped down to sit on the mattress by Aya's side, his gaze fixed on the way his fingers knotted and unknotted nervously, his shoulders hunching defensively at the pain that he just knew was coming. The apprehensive brunet licked suddenly dry lips, and cleared his throat in an effort to make the words come more easily, but it made no difference; they were still a harsh rasp of air moving over too brittle, scorched skin. “Aya… I… can't fix you. God knows I wish I could, but… I'm not enough. When this is all over, I think you should leave Weiss. Maybe go back to Crashers. Talk to a psychiatrist, though the gods know that I'd be kinda reluctant to take what they say as the truth. Especially if it's one of Kritiker's.” Unspoken at the end was the thought that it would be just like Kritiker to get a shrink who could fix the broken assassin in a way that would be of the most benefit to them…

 

There was pale, dawning sunlight streaming across the skylight above, the warmer, brighter sort that suggested that even in the mountains, time was moving on and the bitter dregs of winter were letting go. Dulled in misery, the ex-ball player cast his eyes up at the patch of silvered sky where the stars were rapidly drowning, and willed himself to let everything go. Maybe that was why it was such a shock when arms that were gentler than he remembered slid around him, and a familiar head of short-cropped hair burrowed into Ken's shoulder.

 

“No, you can't…” Sadly, the low voice agreed, half muffled against fabric, and the muscle and bone beneath.

 

If only Aya would argue, would tell him that he was wrong… Sharp pain lanced through Ken's chest, only to get shoved into that handy mental sub-basement with all the other regrets from his life. What did it matter? This conversation was as close to letting anyone inside as Aya ever came in his icy majesty, and Ken supposed that he really ought to be grateful, because sooner or later, the anal bastard would revert to type and go back to holding everyone at arm's length. Somehow, Ken just couldn't summon the energy to keep on pushing.

 

Aya was broken, and all the king's men and all the king's horses…

 

The world sucked.

 

Sighing softly, Ken twisted around till he was sitting with one leg drawn up and bent partly under him. His arms tightened around the withdrawn figure sharing his bed if not his soul, and Ken had to seriously wonder how he'd gotten there. It wasn't as if he hadn't had some kind of interest in Aya from the day that they met and trashed the flower shop. Of course, at the time, it had been more focused on questions like what it would take to put the arrogant newcomer in the hospital, but still… When had he gotten in so deep?

 

And it wasn't just his lust whatever thing with the redhead, either. Omi had just kicked his metaphoric butt and expressed his disappointment, and that had stung in a major way. Ken didn't like the uncomfortable, squirmy feeling it gave his insides to have the littlest and youngest of their group looking at him with that mix of pity and disillusionment, kind of like what the sisters at the orphanage used to level at him when the child-Ken had screwed up. Worse, he suspected that Omi was right; somewhere in his subconscious, Ken had been trying to make things go away by ignoring them, and that wasn't just stupid, it was potentially lethal. The people they'd gotten mixed up with were far from reluctant to just eliminate `problems,' and it was pretty obvious that he and his teammates had made it into that classification.

 

Aya's hair beneath his cheek was cobweb soft and fine, a wisp of it trying to cling to the corner of Ken's mouth, and the brunet couldn't resist rubbing against it. He pressed a light kiss to the crown of the swordsman's head, and was relieved to feel some of the rigidity ease from the tensed body within the circle of his arms. It couldn't last more than another minute or two, but for as long as it did, it was… nice… just holding on for a change.

 

 

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

 

 

Yet when Ken blearily opened his eyes, it had to be hours later because the clear sun was now stabbing down vertically through his skylight. The other half of the bed was already empty, Aya having relocated at some point, and didn't that say something about the brunet's hyper-alert Spider senses… What kind of assassin didn't notice another person moving around? Ken scrubbed a hand across a faintly stubbled jaw and gummy eyes, and not for the first time wondered why he didn't just take up drinking - at least that way when he woke up feeling like Hell, he'd have something to blame it on.

 

The indentation in the pillow beside his head was already cold, meaning that the other man had been gone for some time. Ken picked up a single thread of deep red that clung to the white cotton and stretched it in front of his eyes, squinting at the rich color. It was a wonder that something so hot looking could belong to a person who was both reclusive and frigid, who only play-acted at passion. And yet…

 

It had definitely felt like there was a crack in the swordsman's impassive exterior.

 

Yeah… a crack, all right. Ken squirmed uncomfortably, and grimaced at the thought. Unfortunately, it appeared to run a lot farther than skin deep, and involved way more than a yen for screwing around in bed, or murmuring sweet nothings to the dawn. All that talk about breaking and being broken had been disturbing, and several hours of sleep did nothing toward giving a poor jock any ideas as to what to do about it.

 

So much for hoping that the situation would look better after he'd slept on it.

 

Groaning, Ken hauled himself out of bed and scrubbed at his fuzzy teeth with his forefinger. First order of business was to shower and get rid of the lingering ache of his fading burns and bruises. Then, dressed in clean clothes, he was going to go fill the gaping hole in his middle. And only then, after what little sanity he had left was firing on all cylinders, did he intend to drag his confused emotional state out from under the stairs and beat it with a stick. Hopefully, things would make a little more sense…?

 

Whatever. Introspection wasn't his strong suit on a good day, and lately, good days had been in short supply. Since he was desperate for a distraction on the personal front, maybe it would be good to get a clear handle on what Omi's research might have turned up. The kid had been uncharacteristically grown up and serious after Aya and Ken's faux pas, and it might be smart to go throw himself on the petit tactician's mercy. Of course, Ken added sourly, Charity would've been easier to come by a couple of days ago - before I shot him down in that alley. But that wasn't fair either, because Omi wasn't the sort to think with his crotch. Yes, the younger Hunter had been tough on his wayward teammates the previous night, but not unreasonably so. If anyone had come out of that session looking stupid, it had been Ken.

 

Scruffy, faded-to-gray blue jeans came out of his dresser drawer to be tossed haphazardly in the direction of his rumpled bed, and a long-sleeved red tee followed. Laundry was another thing that might be good to take care of, on the assumption that once things broke loose, no one was going to have time to waste on washing clothes. And clean underwear was important for good morale. The thought was enough to put a weak smile on his face, and to keep it there until the ball player made it downstairs. Once there, his nose led him directly to what had become the central point of the chalet " the kitchen.

 

Both Aya and Yohji were present, and to judge by the peaceful calm, they'd reached some sort of truce. Smothered in his baggy, faded black sweater, the swordsman sat at the table with his jaw propped wearily in one hand as he slowly read through Birman's thick folder. Beyond him, back to the athlete hesitating on the threshold, Yohji was stir-frying leftovers. Someone - most likely Omi - had neatened up the burnt strands of wavy blond, and it was a bit weird to see him with hair that was too short for his customary pony tail. But the blunt cut lying against the collar of his blue silk shirt looked surprisingly good… As did the restless flex and shift of the long muscles of the wire man's back. With a flourish, Yohji divided the wok's contents into four bowls, spinning them carelessly onto the table as he shot a grin Ken's way.

 

“Hey, sweetheart. Didn't hear you come down. Get enough beauty sleep?” He performed a short, suggestive dance step, green eyes flicking slyly in Aya's direction. Ken felt his face heat, and coughed. By some miracle - or thanks to long practice - the redhead remained oblivious.

 

Still, the brunet felt himself relaxing. If Yohji had gotten over his bitter fury from the night before, maybe things wouldn't turn out too bad. As he watched, the playboy hung his head out the kitchen door and bellowed, “Ommmmiiii! Get in here, kiddo, or I'll feed your share to Kenken!” A startled squawk and the rapid beat of stocking feet on hardwood told them that the hacker was on his way from somewhere in the house's depths. A long fingered, surprisingly strong hand on Ken's shoulder shoved him down into a vacant chair as Yohji added, “Well, we're out of coffee, soda, and juice, which leaves beer, tea… and beer as choices. What'll you have?”

 

Sliding into a seat opposite, Omi sniffed and demanded, “What happened to water, Yohji-kun?” The older blond made a rude noise and ignored the input. A smile tugged at Ken's lips and with a reluctant laugh, he said, “Tea, if you're serving. Otherwise, I'll just get myself some water.”

 

Putting his hands together, Yohji salaamed with exaggerated respect and intoned, “Your wish is my command, O Master.” Over the man's bent head, Omi rolled his eyes, but an impish grin brightened his childish features, stripping away the image of too old that the previous night had left. Ken felt the stress oozing down his spine and away into the old, ladder-back chair, taking with it the past couple of months. Dimly, he just knew that the nostalgic warmth stealing over him was fake - at its best, life within the team had never had this sort of camaraderie in the old days - but sitting down to a meal with the three of them, the blonds bickering and teasing, Aya studiously ignoring them but still sneaking glances, was comforting.

 

It also felt as if something had gotten resolved while Ken had been sleeping. And that gave him a worried urge to tense right back up; surprises were never one hundred percent good under the best of circumstances, and the trouble Weiss was in didn't even come close to qualifying as `best.'

 

Curious, he sneaked glances at the other three while inhaling the unnamed dish of stir-fried noodles and other, less identifiable things. One thing was for sure; when he felt like it, Yohji was a damned fine cook. He had a knack for making something tasty out of the questionable, wilted bits that accumulated at the back of the fridge. Just now, the senior assassin was rocking his chair back on two legs, cradling his bowl against his chest as he shoveled in the food and continued to tease Omi with references to genies and lamps. Gradually, Ken tuned them out and shifted his attention to Aya.

 

The object of his covert observation ate mechanically, studying the stacked papers with grim desperation, the line of his shoulders and back turned stiff and unwelcoming. The Aya of last night, who'd admitted to human weaknesses, had crawled back under Abyssinian's protective shell. Ken stole another quick glance at the blond pair, and felt his premonition of impending trouble intensify.

 

But what the heck? No one was fighting. Yohji and Omi had gone back to being their normal selves, and Aya was just Aya… even if his version of `normal' tended toward the anti-social and brooding side. Giving up, Ken gave a small shake of his head and concentrated on filling up on lunch.

 

“Ne… Aya-kun? Have you found anything more in the Press Club materials?” Omi's light alto was hesitantly polite as he set down his half-empty bowl and arranged his chopsticks across it. His large, lake-blue eyes were fixed expectantly on the impassive Hunter, who gave an ambiguous shrug. Aya finished chewing and swallowed before answering.

 

“Possibly. One of the unknowns in the mission profile concerned the documents that were stolen, and what their value might be. Kritiker's research had indicated that there was an international interest, but not why there was. I believe I may have found the answer, and if I'm correct, it will give us a sense of what deadlines the opposition may be laboring under.” Pausing, he sipped at his tea while interestingly enough no one groused about the interruption. Even Yohji managed to contain the urge to make a smart-ass remark, just leaning back and watching expectantly. “The Prime Minister, Junichiro Koizumi, is scheduled to visit India late in April. At this point, China is Japan's only real competitor, economically and politically. But alone, we lack the strength to stand against the Communist alliance of China, Pakistan, and North Korea. Should Japan succeed in reaching an accord with India, that situation will be reversed.”

 

A rude snort from the playboy was accompanied by a drawled, “The world's a big place, Ayan. I saw the list of what they think might have gotten ripped off. Hell, they aren't even sure… And if they aren't what makes you think you've got a handle on it?”

 

“True. The potential document losses cover everything from Defense Forces reports on nuclear and missile readiness, to the security measures surrounding the tenth anniversary of the sarin attacks by the Aum Shinrikyo cult. However, one item on the list initially attracted my attention"” A spark of excitement put faint pink on the swordsman's sculpted cheekbones, but his cultured voice remained level as he flipped to a particular page in the mission packet. Ken leaned forward together with the rest of the team as the folder was spun about and a fingertip pointed to a block of text. Slowly, Omi read it aloud.

 

“ `Report to the Cabinet Security Council on Piracy in the Bay of Bengal and the Malacca Strait…' Um… Let me think.” A distracted air settled onto the boyish face as his eyes became unfocused. “Wasn't there an incident a few years back where the Indian navy and coast guard recovered a Japanese merchant ship that had been hijacked?”

 

The redhead's shapely mouth twitched into a hint of a smug smile, almost distracting Ken from his words - not a hard thing to do when the athlete had no clue what the two of them were talking about - as Aya nodded. “Precisely. Eighty percent of Japan's oil passes through the Strait, and twenty percent of the ships are Japanese owned. The government has made overtures to India in the past to secure cooperation in protecting shipping. But in addition, there's also been a great deal of controversy over the Indian nuclear tests, as well as the Sri Lankan peace process…” As he named each, he tapped the corresponding item on the list, sending a wave of nausea to Ken's gut. By their expressions, the same was happening to Yohji and Omi, but Aya remained oblivious, concluding, “While I was prepping for my cover as Fujita, I noticed that there were several `hot' topics, and that these were among them. I can't guarantee it, but my instincts say that the group that we're pursuing would like to see the Prime Minister's visit on April 28th come to an unpleasant end.”

 

The kitchen was dead silent, except for the monotonous hum of the refrigerator, until finally Yohji cleared his throat. “Damn, Aya… You sure you aren't the one who was a PI your last incarnation?”

 

The wine dark head inclined slightly in acknowledgement of the compliment, as Omi shifted and muttered mostly to himself, “Okay… Gotcha. Their window for making the contact and obtaining the stolen materials has an end point. And they'll need to get the stuff far enough in advance for it to be useful…” The team's tactician looked up sharply. “We've been assuming that these guys are mercenaries, right? That probably means that they're buying the stuff for somebody else" ”

 

“Whoa! Time out, kiddo!” The two feet of the playboy's chair that had been in the air thunked onto the floor. “That question's out of bounds. Sure, it would be nice to do something about the Evil Empire or whatever you want to call them, but that's way outside of our league. Let's keep our eyes on the" ”

 

“I swear, Yohji-kun, if you keep on with the sports metaphor and say `ball,' I'll put hair remover in your shampoo.” Annoyed, the other blond interrupted him with a no-nonsense glare. In spite of himself, Ken snickered; usually he was the one catching Hell for talking soccer incessantly. It was kind of endearing to see Omi share the love with someone else for a change. His best friend shot him a dirty look too before addressing the alarmed older Hunter again. “Fine. I agree that we're not equipped to take on the government of a world power, and yes, it leads us right back to the moral quicksand of one guy's right is another guy's wrong. But I think we've all agreed that these people we're fighting… there's no gray to their Darkness. They murdered Honey, and wouldn't have minded killing us either, right? Them we need to deal with. Permanently.”

 

Ken found himself nodding his agreement, right along with Yohji. Aya, however, shoved back his chair with a muttered, “Excuse me,” and strode rapidly out of the kitchen. As the squeak of the couch's aged springs announced that the swordsman had flung himself down on it, Yohji heaved a troubled sigh and raked the wavy locks of blond back from his forehead.

 

“Shit. And here I thought we were making some progress…”

 

 

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

 

 

“Ken. Shut up and dry the damned dishes, will you?” Lean fingers resting on his hips, Yohji glowered at his cleaning detail assistant, and Ken had to fight the temptation to roll his eyes. Again.

 

For one thing, it was incredibly unfair that Omi had been excused from slave labor to go supposedly fine-tune his computer searches. More than likely, the petit hacker had just used it as a way to get out from under the once lazy and laid-back playboy - who was currently showing a decidedly Hitler-ish taste for sadism and world domination. Not having the teen's knack for electronic data extraction, nor Aya's when it came to reading between the lines in a Kritiker file, Ken found himself under Yohji's command. And it sucked. Big time.

 

Mulishly, Ken tossed the dish-cloth at the table, and countered, “What is so wrong with just leaving them to air dry in the rack? We do that all the time at home.”

 

“Yeah? Which might explain why the kitchen at the Koneko always looks like a pigsty.” The swift response was accompanied by a hunching of Yohji's shoulders, and an increasingly belligerent tone. Ken had to admit that it was like waving a red flag in his face; it blew the fact that he'd grudgingly decided to like the scrawny blond pain in the ass right out of his mind. He poked Yohji in the chest - hard - sending him stumbling back a step.

 

It wasn't that he was spoiling for a fight exactly. But all the frustrations of the past weeks threatened to boil over, and the detective just happened to be in the way. A similar irritation simmered in the cat green eyes glaring down at Ken, and for a second, it crossed his mind that Yohji was capable of taking him down.

 

He didn't really care.

 

Then, to Ken's surprise, Yohji took a voluntary step away, moving out of the optimal range for a hand-to-hand clash and deliberately defusing the situation. Sighing, the blond said, “Listen, Kenken… there's something we need to talk about. About Aya. Omi and I"”

 

The wild whoop made both of them jump, and exchange equally baffled glances. It was Omi, and he wasn't in danger… and then the noise was repeated, resolving itself into a shouted litany of “I got it! I got it!” and Yohji snorted, a smirk hovering on his wide mouth. Ken's sudden, irrational anger bled away and he snickered. “You think he found something?”

 

“Yeah.” Yohji made an `after you' bow with a flourish, motioning for the ex-soccer player to precede him. “Either that, or the mice are damned noisy. Guess we'd better go see what.”

 

Ken hesitated, unsure whether to go see what his friend had found, or to pursue the confession he'd sensed in the making. “Um, Yohji… About Aya" ”

 

“Later, Kenken. It'll keep.”

 

But if that was the case, why did Yohji seem relieved to have dodged the bullet?

 

Shaking his head, Ken followed the older Weiss. Aya joined them at the foot of the stairs, scanning the apparently empty living room with a frown that put a crease between his brows, and sent an old pair of wire-rimmed reading glasses sliding down his nose. The air of a disturbed scholar suited him, in Ken's opinion, as his heart contracted painfully. But thoughts about how good Aya looked were a bad idea. For one thing, there was the whole business of just how sane the red haired man was, and the ethical considerations of sex with someone who might not be able to make the best decisions. Then Aya shot him a glare over the tops of his glasses that clearly said idiot, and Ken hastily reconsidered some of his objections; Abyssinian might not be completely sane, but there was no doubting Aya's brains.

 

The victory chant started up again, and quirking an eyebrow thoughtfully, Yohji whispered, “In the den?” as he slipped away, shifting effortlessly into a noiseless, hunting stalk. Aya shrugged, stripping off his glasses and hooking one bow into the collar of his sweater in lieu of a pocket before following. That left Ken alone, and hastily he trotted after the other two.

 

Sure enough, the wild cackling led the three wary Hunters back around the base of the stairs, into the narrow hall. Light spilled from the open door of the villa's seldom-used den, and the men exchanged glances when the laughter became loud, off-key singing in what was unmistakably Omi's voice. Yohji murmured, “I don't know… I think I kinda preferred the Mad Scientist number he was doing.”

 

“ `Mwu-ha-ha?' ” Ken suggested, out of the corner of his mouth. When the blond nodded, Aya gave an exasperated huff and left off trying to sneak silently, opting instead to simply walk up to the door and rap on its jamb.

 

“Omi.” he said severely, raising his voice, “What's going on?”

 

The teen had unceremoniously dumped the piles of magazines and books heaped on the desk into an old easy chair, and set his laptop up on the now-cleared desk next to the older, larger system. The two computer screens were flashing columns of numbers in tandem, bars of lime green flickering by quicker than a human eye could follow. Seated in front of them in a creaky swivel chair, the teen's fingers flew across the two keyboards, making full use of the meager processor power available. The headphones of his discman covered his ears, but the faint thumping of the track's bass was audible to his observers. Rubbing his hands together gleefully, Omi bounced in the old desk chair, then swiveled around to exclaim, “I am a genius.”

 

“Oh?” Yohji paused in the act of applying a lit match to the end of his cigarette, tipping his head to peer at the excited hacker over the tops of his non-existent sunglasses. It was kind of funny, and an indication of just how much time they had spent in each others' company that Ken could practically see the tinted lenses below the vivid green of his eyes. The slouching blond held the match to the cigarette until the scent of burning tobacco wafted through the stuffy room, then waved it till the flame went out. Omi likewise fanned the air, coughing.

 

“Would you mind not doing that in here? Not only is it bad for the system"” He patted the aging desktop computer, “"but does the word `flammable' mean anything to you? This room's packed with paper.”

 

“Yeah, yeah…” Smirking, the playboy planted his rear on the edge of the desk, and took another drag from the cigarette. Omi scowled, but decided to let the provocation pass unanswered. Instead, he addressed Ken and Aya.

 

“That piece of the credit card number that you found did the trick, Aya-kun. It matched to a car rental from Avis from the day before Yohji-kun spotted the same company's sticker on the map. Which means that I now have a plate number to go with the make and model of the car. And, the same credit card has turned up again at a convenience store in Tanagawa, in the receipts they submitted to the bank this morning.”

 

The light, cheerful tone brought an involuntary smile to Ken's lips, but passed Aya right by. The older Hunter frowned. “What was the address on the shop?”

 

“Three streets over from the one that the apartment building you were held in is located on.” Omi replied promptly. “But get this, the transaction is dated only two days ago.”

 

“Before the fire.” Yohji pointed out. At the word `fire,' he gave the cigarette between his fingers an odd look, and stubbed it out against the rubber sole of his slipper, adding absently, “Doesn't mean anything… They're probably long gone by now.”

 

“No, I don't think so.” Shaking his head, the younger Weiss spun back around to face the monitor and began typing rapidly. “There's some sort of a connection tying them to Tanagawa. I mean, think about it: Why would a bunch of international art smugglers, with seasoned professional muscle hailing from half the Communist countries on the planet, turn up in a dump like Tanagawa when there are so many better places to stay? I mean, just look at that hotel where the auction was held; now, that was nice.”

 

Glancing between his teammates, Ken slowly rocked up onto the balls of his feet, and back down. “Yeah… But I'll bet that there's a lot more surveillance on a place like that hotel. Maybe they picked Tanagawa because nobody cares enough to keep an eye on it?”

 

“No.” The firm contradiction came from Aya. “They're there because of family. Do you recall what Honey said? Those men knew her cousins, knew that they were welcome at the Hot Body, and the apartment house. Check the family names for everyone that we have who's involved. There has to be a connection somewhere.”

 

“Okay… That makes sense in a weird, perverted, incestuous sort of way…” The elder of the two blonds was nodding slowly. He shifted the dead cigarette to the other corner of his mouth, allowing it to dangle precariously as he added, “You may not talk a lot, Ayan, but you're usually right on the money when you do.” Unexpectedly, the comment made Omi giggle.

 

“Is that where you end up when you follow the money, Yohji-kun?” he quipped, glancing over his shoulder with a grin. “Now, everybody get the heck out of my office. The genius has some work to do.”

 

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

 

 

The problem with being essentially a brawn and not brains kind of guy, Ken admitted, was that it was damned tedious waiting for something physical to do. His sleep schedule was permanently skewed from staying up fretting… and doing other things… night after night, so it wasn't as if he could go to bed and zone. There was virtually no TV signal, thanks to the surrounding mountains, and the only videos in the place were ones that he'd already seen. Aya was busy going over his cryptic notes, and the blonds were plowing through the mountain of bank data that the credit card search had yielded, plotting place and time on a map. There was nothing to do for a guy whose main talents were limited to kicking around a ball and to gutting people.

 

And he didn't even have a soccer ball any more.

 

Ken lay on the couch with his head hanging off the seat cushion, thick brown hair gone shaggy nearly brushing the floor, and stared at the rose-tinted light outside. The last patch of lingering, crusty snow had finally converted itself to goopy mud in the shadow of gray-violet boulders. And out in the open, where the sun could penetrate, there were hesitant shoots of green. He'd kind of lost track of how many days had passed since they'd broken the missing swordsman out of the hospital, but the truth was that if Aya was right, the clock was ticking down to disaster.

 

God, Jesus, and Holy Mary… April 28th? They were down to counting in days - not weeks, or months.

 

Ken scrubbed a hand across his eyes. The red haired, anal retentive freak probably was right. They'd been looking for the reason behind the sequence of baffling events that they'd stumbled into the middle of, and it made sense that the opposition had come to Japan not only to sell the stolen art in a lucrative market, but also to buy something. Logically, it also followed that the something be government secrets with the potential to do considerable harm. And where better to use them than right under everyone's noses " in Japan.

 

Grudgingly, he had to admire the mercenary team. They'd pulled together a complex operation that would have put Takatori Reiji and his bunch to shame. And Takatori had made it - albeit briefly - to the Prime Minister's office. These people were on the road to isolating Weiss' homeland from its allies, setting it up to fall. It was pure chance that a man Aya hadn't seen since childhood had been A) present, and B) recognized the former son of a privileged house in the Kritiker agent. Chance that the enemy had made the connection with a name on the Press Club's roster. And chance that had left the swordsman alive to come home to his team. Except for those tiny events, no one would ever have been the wiser that Japan was teetering on the brink of disaster.

 

Ken had never really believed in luck as such. Hard work made things happen, like his rise from the obscurity and poverty of an orphanage to being a J-League star. But he had to admit that only a wildly improbable chain of events could have lead the Hunters to where they were now, on the brink of taking on an enemy that had been a jump ahead of them from the start.

 

Only chance had let him get close to Aya.

 

That was a disturbing thought all by itself. If Abyssinian hadn't been made, he wouldn't have nearly died, and Ken would have gone the rest of his life suppressing what ifs and maybes. His feelings about Yohji wouldn't have changed from bare tolerance to grudging friendship. Omi would still be a playmate and buddy, not an almost lover.

 

Ken would probably be firmly on the road to Hell.

 

He stared blindly at the deepening twilight as he turned the thought around in his head, examining it from a safe distance the way he would a land mine or a pile of doggy-do. But there was no denying the truth; Ken recognized that he'd been drifting closer and closer to getting lost in the berserker rages that a mission brought - and that things had turned around since setting out to rescue their teammate. Not perfectly so, by any means, but it felt like he had something to live for again, something immediate rather than the abstract goals of Kritiker. He had people to call his own, and they wouldn't simply follow orders blindly any more; they would think, and choose their own way.

 

In spite of himself, he snickered at the mental image of the four Weiss Hunters in tights and billowing capes, fighting for Truth, Justice, and"

 

“That must be one Hell of a wet dream you're having, Kenken.” Yohji's lazy drawl startled the upside-down brunet so much that Ken squawked, floundered, and tumbled head-first off the edge of the couch, scraping his shoulder on the end table, and tangling a flailing foot in the cord of the end table's lamp. The amused playboy automatically put out a hand to stop its descent.

 

“Yohji! Don't do that!”

 

“Why not? You should've seen your face, Ken-chan. I swear, you were about to start drooling.” the older man protested amiably. He came around the end of the sofa and dropped into its sagging embrace, long legs thrust out under the table. There wasn't a whole lot Ken could do other than glower as he rubbed at his shoulder and dragged himself up off the floor. A wink told him that Yohji wasn't done " not by a long shot " and sure enough, the smirking blond leaned over confidingly and whispered, “So, which was it? Fantasizing about new locations to test out, or imagining Aya in some sexy get-up?”

 

“Gah!” Ken smacked his forehead with his open palm. He would not think about Aya's trim form in tights " but he was, and damn, but the outfit was sexy. “I'm going to hurt you.” the red-faced assassin muttered. “And I'm not going to wait until the mission is over with, either. Could we not talk about Aya like that?”

 

But the blond wasn't joking any more. His broad grin was fading, and he ran a hand uncomfortably back through the wavy thickness of his hair as his eyes darted away, unwilling to meet his partner's. “About that…” he said awkwardly. “About the end of the mission… We… Well, that is, Omi and me…. got to talking…”

 

Confused, Ken stared at the senior Hunter. Yohji was so seldom at a loss for words, his glib patter not only romancing anything on two legs, but also serving to rescue him from one scrape after another, that to hear him stall and die away like that was unthinkable. And as the brunet drew breath to tease him about it, his earlier apprehension returned, multiplied, and he blurted, “Yohji…! What the fucks the matter? Has something happened?”

 

“You might say that…” Yohji slumped down in the sagging cushions, pressing the heels of both palms against his tightly shut eyes. “Shit, Ken. I wish there were an easy way to say this, but there isn't. The truth is, the way Aya is right now, he's a danger to himself, and to us. When this mission is over, we'd like him to leave Weiss. For good.”

 

 

To be continued…

 

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

 

Author's Note: You know, there really is a problem inherent in writing a fic that's grounded in real world events; if you're slow and putzy, you get too separated from them for people to remember what the heck they were and why they were important. Case in point, Koizumi really did visit India on April 28th, 2005. Now that it's November, who the heck remembers that?

 

If you're interested in a bit more about the political situation Aya describes, a good overview article can be found at: http: (slash slash) www. deccanherald. com /deccanherald /apr262005 /editpage1612382005425. asp

 

The article, “In Perspective: Japan's Strategic Importance” by Sudha Ramachandran ran in The Deccan Herald, Tuesday, April 26, 2005.

 

Also, I've gotten a couple of comments regarding the use of “petit,” “brunet,” and “blond” to describe the Weiss team. I do recognize that the other forms are used interchangeably in English, but my first language is one that does make gender distinctions. Every time I see “brunette,” I expect to find out that Ken is really a girl. I just can't deal with it.

 

Ta until next time.

 

Lisa