Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ The Rain Doesn't Grieve ❯ 18 ( Chapter 18 )

Special Note from GuiltyRed -

 

About that move to livejournal… “Standing Outside the Fire” is already up over there, and “Coming Home” will be current after the next chapter. I also have a story that never touched fan fiction sites, “Whom Gods Destroy”, and I am reposting “To Those About to Die” on my journal as well.

 

After this current chapter of “The Rain Doesn't Grieve”, I'll be posting only one more chapter of it on this site. Again, the reasons for this move have to do with the policies of fan fiction sites and my refusal to self-censor. Please come to livejournal dot com and find me there, you can use the Search box to find the username “guiltyred (underscore) fics”, or hop over to my main blog “guiltyred” and navigate from there.

 

I don't want anyone getting lost, and I hope this move isn't too much of a hassle for you all to follow. The stories are also being posted on my main website if you don't like navigating the livejournal world - the address for that is in my profile.

 

If you have any questions, concerns, or need a better map, please feel free to email me - that address is also in my user profile.

 

Thank you!

 

GuiltyRed

 

 

 

18

 

smoking guns and apologies, never given what you need

scrap the simple games you play and take them to the floor

 

Yohji - Visitor

 

I set down the cell phone and smiled. It was nice hearing from Ken after all this time. He sounded good. A bit hyper, maybe, but I couldn't blame him for being excited: he'd never been away from Japan for so long before.

 

So, Ken was going to room with Aya? “Yare, yare, Ken-kun. If you two don't kill each other in the first week, I'll be highly amazed.” Not that I could offer any better options. My lifestyle really wouldn't handle a roommate, especially a morning person like Ken.

 

The cheery phone call had put me in the mood to party, something I hadn't done in far too long. Singing along with the stereo, I cleaned up my dinner dishes and neatened up my apartment; one could never know whom one might meet, after all. Didn't want my home to be less than presentable, just in case. Fresh sheets and towels were a must - the ladies appreciate a man who knows how to do his own laundry.

 

Around ten I decided the apartment looked as good as it was likely to, short of hiring a maid. Wine in the fridge, music loaded into the stereo, the remote on the kitchen bar - perfect. Just to make sure, I lit a couple of candles and turned out the lights. It looked just as good by candlelight, if not better.

 

A moment of melancholy swept over me, colored golden by the flickering light. The missions, the disasters, the mending, all these had stolen months from my life. Now, while the nightmares were fairly tame and alcohol was a friend and not my master, I wanted to reclaim myself.

 

Reclaim, or reinvent? Either way, tonight was mine.

 

I reached to snuff out the first candleflame, then paused. The likelihood of ever seeing him again was slim. I could only pray he stayed safe, and ran fast.

 

Eyes shut, I blew out the candle.

 

As I left the apartment, I kept up my sealing-the-door thing, this time with a bit of candlewax. At least it was harmless, if a bit weird. Funny how quickly random actions can become habits if you let them.

 

The place I picked was within walking distance, though a bit of a stretch. I could use public transport if I got too drunk to walk and too unlucky to have any other ride, but I didn't expect that to happen. I'd come here with the intention of finding a new friend, and by the gods I planned to make good on it.

 

The music writhed around me like a drunken whore, pulling and caressing in a state of wild abandon. I gave myself over willingly, dancing with everyone who paused in my space. Men, women, couples, didn't matter. We moved and teased and often touched, working each other into dervish-like ecstasy.

 

I only paused to drink, alternating water and whiskey. You can't dance like that if your blood is half alcohol, and I didn't want to have to call the party off on account of drunken stupor. This night was too good to waste.

 

As I danced my way back to the center of the floor, where the crush of bodies shed layers of clothes and inhibitions, I noticed someone moving toward me through the crowd. My eyes drooped shut, and I smiled, imagining long red hair brushing across my chest.

 

When I opened my eyes again, my pleasant fantasy evaporated, replaced by a silent roar of white noise. Asuka stood before me, entreating me with hollow eyes. She needed something, I had to do something, but I couldn't understand her. “What?” I mumbled, inaudible through the music.

 

“Go home, now!”

 

I frowned. Slowly that old sixth or seventh sense kicked in, and I knew that something somewhere was amiss. My detective instinct urged me to listen to my ghost and get the hell out of there, but why?

 

I let the music propel me toward the door, all the while feeling myself growing steadily more sober. Something wasn't right, but what? The back of my neck crawled with paranoia.

 

My fingers toyed with the catch on my watch. If someone was following me, they were in for a rude surprise. I couldn't decide whether the feeling of trouble meant I was in danger myself, or if it was someone close to me. I did decide, though, that if I made it home without any incident, I was going to call Omi and make sure nothing was wrong.

 

The closer I got to my apartment, the more certain I became that the threat lay ahead, not behind. I climbed the stairs, careful to avoid the creaky spots, and approached my door on full alert.

 

The fragile wax thumbprint on the edge of the door was missing.

 

Adrenaline surged through my veins. Someone was inside my home. Someone who didn't have a key: the keyhole bore fresh scrapes, from an object other than the right key being forced inside.

 

Then I saw the blood.

 

Fresh blood.

 

Whoever had broken in was probably still there. I put my ear to the crack of the door and listened. Running water? Who would break into my apartment and run the water?

 

I opened the door.

 

About the time my mind registered light seeping from under the bathroom door, the water turned off, followed quickly by the light. They knew I was home.

 

I paused to turn on a lamp, all the while letting my brain work on the clues. No key, blood, water, reckless.

 

Schuldig.

 

My jaw tensed in anger. Anything that would send him to my apartment bleeding couldn't be a good thing, and I had no idea how bad off he might be. Only one thing to do. I approached the bathroom, then leaned back against the wall opposite the door. Casually I took out a cigarette and lit it. On the exhale I addressed the bathroom door. “Why are you bleeding all over my apartment?”

 

A soft clatter sounded within, then the door opened. Schuldig stood there, nearly swaying. He looked like total hell: clothing and skin torn, eyes ringed with darkness. All he said was, “I'll explain later.”

 

Damn. At least I knew first aid, and had a well-stocked emergency kit. He stepped back as I turned the light on and entered the bathroom. With the calm of having tended many wounds, I gathered the things I would need and set them on the counter.

 

Then I remembered that paranoid feeling, and reminded myself that I had no idea who had done this to him, or where they might be. And I had his bloody handprints all over my front door. I reached under the sink, grabbed the rags and solvent, and told him, “Be right back.” I'd done this before, too. Couldn't do anything about the scratched lock, but maybe it wouldn't catch anyone's attention. I cleaned the door, then made sure it was locked before returning to the bathroom.

 

Schuldig had turned the tap on once more, though he seemed too exhausted to tend his own wounds properly. He'd washed some, but there was still much to be done. I put away the solvent, tossed the rags into the bathtub, then rolled up my sleeves and washed my hands thoroughly.

 

Schuldig started to dry his hands, and I realized that he had the wrong towel. “Hey, don't do that. That one will leave lint in the wounds.” I stepped back from the sink and reached for the towel he was holding. “Here, rinse off again and let me have a look.” I dried my hands with the fuzzy towel, then tossed it into the bathtub with the rags. Some part of my mind insisted that I clear all DNA traces of this man from my home, and I wasn't sure I could argue with it. Towels were cheap enough.

 

I watched as he scrubbed gingerly at his hands. He was starting to get pale and shaky, with a sick gleam of sweat on his face. When he was done, I took hold of his right hand and gently dried the palm with a wad of gauze. I frowned at him; his hand was a wreck, dotted with what looked like thorn tips. “What did you do, get in a fight with a tree?”

 

“Something like that,” he gasped, clearly in a good deal of pain.

 

“Wait here,” I instructed, then hurried to the kitchen. I had learned long ago to keep pain medicines close to the fridge, so I'd remember to eat something when taking them. The bottle of codeine was still half-full, and fresh. I poured a mug of orange-pineapple juice for him to take the pills with, then rummaged in a couple of drawers until I found the duct tape. I found myself smiling at a remembered comment of his. Maybe that would make things a little easier. The first time I'd used this on myself, I'd nearly fainted, and Schuldig seemed more delicate than I ever was. Mug, tape, and pill bottle in hand, I made my way back to the bathroom.

 

Schuldig was leaning against the wall, his breathing ragged and his eyes dark. I hoped he wasn't going into shock. After setting everything down on the counter, I picked the pill bottle back up and opened it. “Can you take codeine?” I asked, realizing a little late that some people were allergic.

 

“As far as I know.”

 

“Here,” I said, holding two tablets in front of his mouth. Schuldig took them in his teeth, and I held the mug for him to drink. He sipped just enough to wash the pills down. I put the mug back on the counter and reached for the tape. “Okay, let me see your hands.” He lifted them with the hesitancy of anticipated pain. Hoping to put him at ease, I told him, “I was thinking about you, Schuldig. Something you said gave me all sorts of ideas.”

 

He gave me a puzzled look.

 

I showed him the duct tape and winked.

 

Schuldig gave a little laugh. “Hentai!”

 

I tore off a strip of tape, then lifted his right hand and squinted at it. Definitely thorns, and road grime besides. This was going to be bad. “Okay, you're not going to like this,” I warned him, “but trust me, it works.” Moving slowly, I pressed the tape to his damaged palm. Schuldig flinched when I worked the tape into the cuts, but it had to be done. “Easy,” I murmured, “I know it hurts, but we have to get that shit out of your hand.” I worked the tape in, pressing it down firmly and as gently as possible. When I knew I'd done the best I could with it, I looked into his eyes and asked, “Ready?”

 

Schuldig gritted his teeth and nodded, clearly bracing himself. I started peeling the tape off, going slowly so as to not break any of the thorns into even smaller slivers. Schuldig gasped, and I sympathized totally. This was a bitch of a way to get crap out of a wound, but it worked, and right then we didn't have the luxury of an emergency clinic. I had the feeling that Schuldig and his team wouldn't ever have that luxury again. By the time I finished easing the tape off his right hand, he looked like he was about to pass out. The closest seat was the toilet, so I guided him in that direction, put the lid down and helped him sit. Schuldig looked like he wanted to puke: fresh sweat shone on his face, and his skin was ashen. He sat there panting as I prepared a cool cloth and draped it across the back of his neck.

 

If I didn't hurry this up, he was going to faint or hurl before I got done. I gave him a few moments, then lifted his left hand.

 

His breath hissed between his teeth as I worked; the palm looked more like ground meat than a hand. Not looking at his face, I pressed the tape into the mangled mess and felt for thorns. I took extra care peeling the tape free this time, as I'd felt a number of hard bits sticking to it as I'd worked. It was bad, worse than his right hand, but to my relief (and no doubt his!) the tape seemed to have pulled all foreign matter loose. I looked at the tape, then showed it to my patient. It held an assortment of plant debris, gravel, and oily grit that looked like asphalt.

 

“Nice trick,” Schuldig said, his voice harsh and queasy-sounding.

 

“It's really good for glass,” I said as I stuck the two spent pieces of tape together and tossed them in the tub with the rest of the trash. “But it's the best way I've found to get thorns and splinters out without them breaking. It's a florist trick. Can you stand yet?”

 

Schuldig nodded, but his body wasn't inclined to believe him. He tottered to his feet and stood there swaying, his eyes dark with pain and codeine. I guided him back toward the sink, not missing the flinch he gave when he realized where we were going. Schuldig stared wide-eyed at the medicines on the counter as though expecting them to bite him.

 

I picked up a jar of salve and opened it, enjoying for a moment the clean non-smell of it. Somehow he trusted me to smear the stuff on his hands, and he sighed as it went from cool to numbing. I slathered it on thick. I hadn't seen damage that bad in a long damn time; I only hoped the salve would do the trick. If they got infected, it would be an ugly mess for weeks.

 

After the salve, I applied gauze bandages, wrapping his hands with extra care. Though his left hand had been the more damaged, he let me bandage it without complaint, but his right he kept tucked against his chest until I carefully moved it just enough to wrap. It wasn't the hand that bothered him now, I realized: he was holding his arm at an awkward angle. I frowned. “What's wrong with your shoulder?”

 

He balked, clearly not wanting to endure any more tonight. Had he thought I wouldn't notice?

 

“Come on, let's get that shirt off.” I started undoing the buttons for him. Not that there was much shirt left to remove: it was nearly as shredded as his hands. He let me work without hindrance, even shrugging out of the left sleeve for me. But when I tried to get the right sleeve free, he flinched and gasped with the pain. This was going to be bad. I had the feeling he'd taken quite a fall, without his usual graceful skill. Must have been in a hell of a hurry.

 

I eased the shirt off him as carefully as if he were a rare and fragile doll. The shirt became one with the garbage, taking its last fall in a wad into the tub. Then I looked back at Schuldig - and understood why he'd been cradling his arm. The entire upper right quarter of his torso was one massive bruise, darker around the joint of his shoulder. “Damn, Schuldig,” I murmured, feeling his shoulder to check for heat.

 

He tried to look down at himself, then settled for peering around my shoulder at the mirror. Schuldig gasped, clearly not expecting the damage to be so visible.

 

I made him turn a little so I could see the back. The skin across his shoulderblade was damn near worse than his hands. I'd have to do something about that, but first we had to know if the joint were dislocated. “Okay, just try to relax,” I said as I gripped his elbow and tried to flex his arm, starting with the wrist. Amazingly enough that seemed nearly unhurt, so I tried the elbow. Again, not bad. Gently I started to raise his arm at the shoulder.

 

“Fuck!” Schuldig hissed, jerking back and hugging his arm to his side.

 

“Steady, man,” I murmured, assuring myself that there was no fever in the joint. Then I tried it again, holding on as firmly as if this were Ken I was working on. I'd set enough dislocated shoulders on that man to open up shop as a chiropractor. Fortunately for Schuldig, it looked like he wouldn't have to endure that particular event: it was sprained, but not out of socket.

 

Hopefully the codeine would blunt that pain soon enough. As it was, he didn't complain as I cleaned the torn skin on his shoulder blade and applied salve to it. Then I used an elastic sports wrap to bind his arm to his side for the night. “That'll keep it from moving for a few hours, anyway,” I told him, eyeing my handiwork. “There's not much else I can do about the shoulder. It's sprained pretty bad, but at least it's in the socket. Anything else need doctoring?”

 

Schuldig looked down and gave a disgusted groan.

 

I followed his gaze and couldn't hide a sad smile. Tears and scuffs decorated the familiar black leather. Those must have been his favorite pants, I thought. Well, obviously if they were in such bad shape, his legs had to be doctored. He didn't have the hands to undress himself, so I reached down and unbuttoned them, then eased them down his slender hips. I couldn't look at his face; something about the situation seemed a little too intimate. He wasn't wearing undershorts, and for a moment he looked like he was getting a little aroused. Then the leather pulled away from a cut on his leg and he flinched, breaking the spell.

 

Fortunately the leather was fairly sturdy. His legs weren't cut up too badly. Schuldig remained still as I cleaned and medicated his legs. He did flinch a little, but only when he watched me toss the ruined pants into the bathtub.

 

I put my medical supplies away, then went to my bedroom to find some spare clothes. Hopefully Schuldig wouldn't topple over and damage himself any more in my absence. I couldn't give him anything too complicated, or we'd never get him dressed, and pissing was likely to be a challenge in itself. I decided to put him in a bathrobe and hope he wasn't too shy to deal with it.

 

When I came back to the bathroom, he was leaning against the sink and staring at his reflection. He looked tragic, so different from the grinning agent of Schwarz I'd battled nearly to our mutual deaths. This was the man I'd talked to in my car, in the park; this was a human being who was in pain, and right now looked as if he couldn't understand why it hurt so damn bad.

 

Then again, that could have just been the codeine.

 

I offered him the robe and a hairbrush, and he gave me a lopsided smile in return. Then I gave him his privacy again and went to prepare the couch for company.

 

 

A/N:

 

First, apologies for the long delay in posting. “Real life” got in the way a bit. Details in my livejournal for the curious. We return now to the program already in progress…

 

 

smoking guns and apologies, never given what you need

scrap the simple games you play and take them to the floor

 

“Dance Floor Metaphor” - The Cruxshadows Frozen Embers

 

Yohji - Visitor

A perfectly Yohji song from a perfectly Schuldig band. The chemistry between those two is unmistakable. And yes, closing one's eyes while making a wish and blowing out a candle is powerful magic in itself.

 

Yare, yare - Oh dear. (yare yare desu ne)