Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ The Sous-Chef ❯ Chapter 16

A/N: Another late update. Hey, they're still coming, at least. This is self beta'd, because I wanted to get this up before everyone forgets this project exists, but I'll have to revise it if (when?) my beta points out glaring errors. Also, because I'm tired and lazy, I'm going to skip comment responses this chapter. But I'll do them again next chapter. Rest assured that I am extremely grateful for the feedback you give me, and if it wasn't for that I might not have the chutzpah to go on writing this nonsense.

 

 

Chapter 16

 

Aya awoke on Friday morning, the day scheduled for his first assassination for Farfarello, a bit sore. Schuldig was curled up to him on his right side, and Yohji was fairly draped across him from his left. When he had come home the night before at about midnight, they had immediately set on him like a pair of wolves. Apparently ravenous for him, they took him once each in the shower, and once each in this very bed. Aya had tried to be an active participant but it was beyond his energy to do more than caress and groan and come again and again.

 

Despite his soreness and his worry that he wouldn't be able to walk normally, he felt refreshed. It had been a while since he'd slept so well for so long. He stretched and winced at the small, sharp pain in his bowels.

 

::Were we too rough with you last night?:: Schu's voice sounded in his head. Aya turned his head to look into concerned blue eyes. Schuldig ran a hand up and down Aya's side, soothingly.

 

Aya smiled at him. ::No, it was good,:: he sent. ::It was great; it was perfect. It was just a lot.::

 

Schuldig smiled back—Aya still couldn't get over how different his real smile made him look, compared to that mocking smirk he'd gotten used to as Weiss—and slid forward until he could press his lips gently against Aya's. Aya kissed him back a little harder, and slipped the arm that wasn't resting on Yohji around the German's neck.

 

They lay there for a while, just kissing softly, not using tongues or increasing the intensity, while Schuldig caressed his side and Aya massaged Schuldig's scalp. He lost track of time, happy with the pleasant warmth and affection, until a beam of sunlight shone through the window and hit Yohji right in the eyes.

 

“Skhnrff,” Yohji said, blinking.

 

“Morning, sunshine,” Aya and Schuldig both said in the same dry tone, and Schuldig laughed as Aya raised an eyebrow at him.

 

“That wasn't telepathy, I swear,” Schu gasped.

 

“Schuldig, you're too goddamn loud. Make yourself useful. Go outside and turn off all that damn sunlight,” Yohji slurred.

 

Schuldig rolled his eyes. “I'll just claw both your eyes out, and then it won't bother you. That way I won't have to get up.”

 

“Or you could just make him coffee,” Aya suggested. “You'd have to get up, but we wouldn't have all the screaming and the mess…” He yawned hugely.

 

“Fine, fine,” Schuldig assented, leaning over to kiss Aya once more and then getting up to throw on his blue robe. “You prepare the syringe. Oral coffee ingestion's not going to be enough.”

 

“Though I wouldn't mind being shot up with caffeine, I think I'll just go with a mug, thanks,” Yohji mumbled. His cell phone started ringing as he yawned, and he leaned over the side of the bed and grappled it out of his pants. “Moshi moshi. I mean, hello. Morning. Whatever they say over here.”

 

Aya started chuckling to himself, but stopped abruptly when Yohji's eyes flew open, suddenly alert, and his expression hardened. “I'll see if he wants to talk to you,” Yohji said in an uncharacteristically cold voice. He put his hand over the input. “Do you want to talk to your sister?” he asked, not really meeting Aya's eyes, looking somehow both angry and resigned. Aya sighed, and stretched a hand out for the phone. Yohji handed it over reluctantly. Before he could put the phone to his ear, the blond had firmly wrapped his arms and legs around him and buried his face in Aya's chest. Aya pushed at his shoulders—he sort of wanted privacy for this conversation—but Yohji refused to budge. Giving up and deciding it really wasn't that important, he took a deep breath and spoke into the phone.

 

“Aya-chan.”

 

There was silence for several moments, and Aya drummed his fingers lightly on the back of Yohji's neck. His sister finally spoke. “How are you, Ran-nii?”

 

Aya closed his eyes, asking, “Why are you still in Japan?” He didn't feel like pleasantries at the moment, even though the sound of his little sister's voice, healthy and alive, filled him so full of relief that tears stung his eyelids.

 

Aya-chan took a shaky breath. “If you're worried about Esszet agents, I am staying with Mamoru-san and Nagi-san, nii-san. Isn't that acceptable?” she pleaded.

 

“I suppose it is. You should have gone straight to them when you first—“

 

“I was worried about you, nii-san. I had tried calling and the phone was disconnected, and—“

 

“That's no excuse,” Aya snapped, raising his voice a little in spite of himself. “You knew how to contact Mamoru.”

 

“You never tell Mamoru-san anything, Ran-nii. I didn't think he would know what was going on.” He could hear tears in her voice. “I don't want to fight with you. I'm here, I'm alive, I'm safe, and I want to know how you are, Ran-nii.”

 

“When did you start caring about how I am?” Aya winced—he hadn't meant to ask such a question. It came out harsh and sounded petulant and manipulative to his ears. Even so, he felt no desire to apologize.

 

“I…” He could tell she was crying now, trying to hide it. He wished he could see her, at least take her hand. He knew it was unavoidable that she would cry—she was a sensitive woman—but he didn't like being the cause of it. “I haven't ever stopped, “ she said at last. Her voice was smooth and controlled, making him smile a little. “It was just…I was so…” Her voice cracked. “I'm so sorry, nii-san, I'm so, so sorry I hurt you.” She was hyperventilating now. “Maybe—I'm just—stupid, but I—didn't think it—w—would be—damn it!” Sobbing now. “I didn't think it—would be so—bad for you. Thought you—I thought you—“ She fell into incoherence, and Aya realized his own cheeks were no longer dry.

 

He tapped Yohji, who was still wrapped around him. When the blond looked up, he motioned him to the door. He really did want some privacy for this. Yohji looked like he really didn't want to go, but he just swiped a thumb across Aya's cheek and kissed his temple before getting out of bed, pulling on a robe and leaving. Aya gently shushed his little sister, hugging his knees to his chest. Her sobs were raw and painful to listen to, and he wished again that they were in the same room instead of more than an ocean away from each other. “Nee-chan…”

 

After a little while she got herself under control. “I thought,” she was finally able to say, “that you really needed a break from me as much as I needed one from you, nii-san. You made me your whole life, and that shouldn't be a sister's role. I know why you did, and it wasn't your fault, and I don't blame you for it—I never did.” Her voice was watery and pained. “But I couldn't live that way, and you acted so…were acting so strange. I know why, and I never stopped thinking about the Esszet agents, nii-san. It was just…sometimes I wondered if being caught by them would be better for us, maybe, than the way we were living.”

 

“Aya-chan!” he gasped, taken aback. “You don't really think…” He trailed off. He really had made her miserable, hadn't he?

 

“No, I know. I know that sounds terrible, nii-san. And I understand better now than I did then. Especially after the past few weeks of living here. Nagi-san's taught me a lot about Esszet's history and how they work, and Mamoru-kun—er, Mamoru-san has shown me some of what he does to keep track of the different factions, and…showed me evidence that they are still hunting for me, and Weiss too.”

 

Aya swallowed and felt a click in his throat.

 

“But, mostly since he's recruiting more and more Talents every day, they're no closer to finding any of us than they've been for the last five years. Anyway I understand better now and I know how…” her voice cracked again. “How hard you were trying to keep me safe from them and I know I've been bratty and spoiled and stupid and—“

 

“It's alright, Aya-chan,” he interrupted, voice thick. “You don't have to explain. I could have told you a lot of things myself, but I never wanted you to have to know all of this. I wish I didn't know most of what I know about Esszet. I wanted to shelter you from them, but to shelter you from them I had to shelter you from the whole world. I'm surprised you put up with it for as long as you did.”

 

“I could have handled it much better,” Aya-chan mumbled. “I kind of thought you wanted me to leave, when you didn't stop me.”

 

Aya frowned. “What are you talking about? How was I supposed to know you were leaving if you didn't tell me?”

 

“I know now that you didn't know, but at the time I was sure Ken-kun would've told you.”

 

Aya felt like he'd been hit with a wrecking ball. “You told Ken? He knew you were leaving?”

 

“Yeah. I made him swear not to tell you, but since he loves you so much I didn't think he'd actually abide by it. I guess he probably wanted you all to himself, huh?” He heard a smile in her voice.

 

He couldn't answer, couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so betrayed. Though the news really shouldn't surprise him, he realized after the initial shock. It was more surprising, considering what he knew of Ken's state of mind, that he hadn't packed her in a suitcase and stuffed her on a freight liner headed for the Congo as soon as he'd found them in Kyoto.

 

“Nii-san? Don't be mad at him now. He only knew about it the day before, and he tried to get me to tell you. He didn't want you to be hurt. Maybe he just didn't want to be the messenger. None of that is his fault.” She sighed at his silence. “Are you still there?”

 

“Yeah,” he managed.

 

“Mamoru-san took me to see him the other day. He's not doing too well. He's getting really skinny and the orderlies say he's stopped sleeping. He looks pretty bad.” Her voice was whisper-soft and sad. They'd been friends, he remembered, Ken and Aya-chan. “I don't think anyone knows what to do with him. They're going to have to feed him intravenously if he doesn't start eating soon.”

 

Aya felt like vomiting. Ken had always been the vital one, the active, sporting, healthy one. He realized he was holding his breath just before a keening sound escaped his lips.

 

“Nii-san, can I come to America and see you? Nagi-san will come with me, and Mamoru-san says your area is clear…so…can I?”

 

It took Aya a few tries before he could answer her. “Yes,” he croaked. “When?”

 

“It will be the end of next week before Nagi-san is able to get away, so we can get there Monday after next. Would that be alright?” Her voice had brightened, sounding hopeful, more like he remembered from before Weiss. She hadn't sounded much like that during the years they'd lived together.

 

It was his fault her voice had lost its brightness. His fault Ken was now starving himself to death. He shouldn't allow Aya-chan back in his life; all he would do was suck her back down into his own despair.

 

“Yes,” he said, choked. “I have to go to work now.” His hands were shaking badly; he wanted to hang up.

 

“Nii-san? Are you okay?” Aya-chan sounded alarmed.

 

He forced his voice into calmness, though he was trembling all over. “I'm fine. I do have to go, though.”

 

“Okay,” she said, not sounding convinced. “I love you, Ran-nii. I really have missed you.”

 

“Yes,” he ground out, barely able to speak. “You, too.” He hung up and flung the phone away, shaking like his skeleton was going to fly apart.

 

As he was slowly getting the shakes under control, burying all the hurt and guilt and hopelessness as deep as he could, Schuldig knocked on the door and walked in, with his own cell to his ear. “Farf wants to talk to you, Aya.” He took one look at Aya and the smile that had been teasing at his lips vanished. ::Feurig? Are you--::

 

“I'm fine,” he answered, voice carefully neutral. “Give me the phone, please.” He held his hand out.

 

Schuldig looked very dubious, but handed him the phone and left the room without another word.

 

Aya took a few calming deep breaths, and put the phone to his ear. “Farfarello?”

 

“Yeah, I wanted to know if you're going to bring your equipment to work with ye.” Perfectly laid back, normal voice. It made Aya feel better for a second, then he frowned.

 

“Equipment?” he wondered, bemused.

 

“You're going out for a game after work, right?”

 

Suddenly it hit him what the madman was referring to. “Oh, yeah. That's right. Um, I had thought to come back home and get it and then go out again.” He wanted to unwind a bit at home before going out for the mission.

 

“No, that won't do. Bring it with ye, come to my place after work and change there. Ye might as well keep your equipment over there anyway; it's closer to the arena. Ye can stay the night afterwards as well, if ye like.”

 

That actually made a lot of sense. Aya had been wondering what he was going to do to keep the assassinations secret from his housemates if things got messy. He'd been planning on sneaking into the restaurant and washing off there if necessary, but there were night porters on duty that he might not be able to avoid running in to. “Sounds good to me.”

 

“Good. Remind me to give ye a spare key, so ye can let yourself in if the game runs into overtime.”

 

A key to Farfarello's apartment? Aya almost smiled. “Okay.”

 

There was a pregnant pause. “You okay, Ran?”

 

The name reminded him of the conversation with his sister, and he had to catch his breath. “I'm okay. I'll see you soon.”

 

“Right.” There was a soft click as Farfarello hung up.

 

Aya stared at the phone. His sister was coming, Ken was dying and he was still killing people for money. His control felt rice-paper thin. “Ken,” he whimpered without meaning to. “God…”

 

Less than five seconds after he'd hung up, Schuldig and Yohji both came back into the room. Without a word, they climbed onto the bed on either side of him and put their arms around him. Aya didn't want them there, didn't want to lose it in front of them. “What's up with you two? Go away,” he said, striving for grouchy but only sounding pleading instead.

 

::No way, Feurig. You're radiating self-loathing. I don't even have to try to go into your prickly head to see it.::

 

::I knew this would happen,:: Yohji griped. ::That little--::

 

::Shut up, Yohji. Feurig...:: Schuldig pressed his cheek against one of Aya's, pressed his palm to the other one. ::Aya. Let yourself hurt, now. Hate yourself all you want. But it's going to end in twenty minutes or less, or I'm going to make you stop. Don't think that just because it's hard to get into your head that I can't do it.::

 

::We won't leave you alone until you let this out, so you might as well get it over with,:: Yohji added, holding him tightly around the ribs.

 

Judging from the volume of his sudden cries, Aya didn't need any more convincing than that. He floated, overcome by grieving but unable to sink into it with all the arms around him.

 

******

 

Farfarello was waiting for him outside the back door when Aya got to Thibodeaux's, eyeing him curiously as he approached.

 

“Your keepers called to tell me to let ye come home tonight,” he said, conversationally.

 

Aya sighed. It had been difficult getting enough time to himself to pack his weapons and mission clothes into a duffel bag, and trying to convince Schu and Yohji that he needed to spend that night at Farfarello's because of something restaurant related had resulted in a decent-sized argument that Aya had not felt up to at all. “What did you say to them?”

 

“I told them it was up to you whether ye wanted to keep this job or not.”

 

Aya cracked a smile in spite of himself. “And did that shut them up?”

 

Farf smiled back. “Shut Schuldig up. Yohji felt compelled to give me a list of the ways in which he would make my life hell if I don't return ye in as good a condition or better than when ye left the house.” He raised an eyebrow. “Rough morning, eh?”

 

“Heh,” Aya chuckled, running a hand across his face. “You could say that.”

 

“You'll be in shape to do the job tonight, though?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Good,” Farf affirmed, turning toward the door. “Because if ye fuck that up, ye can kiss this job good-bye as well.” He opened the door and went through, not bothering to hold it open for Aya.

 

Hoping that nothing else today added to how wretched he felt, Aya opened the door and followed, only the slightest limp in his step betraying the preceding night's activities.

 

******

 

Aya sat down for the shaft meal with the rest of the crew at around four o'clock. The meal that day was—as Ban called it—Flotsam Pasta, which was basically noodles and leftover refuse from stocks and meezes, and whatever was not quite rotten, tossed into tomato sauce. Aya had always thought people who worked in restaurants probably ate really well, but had since learned better. Profit margins were everything in a business with such high overhead. Farfarello made sure the crew got to eat well at least a couple of times a week, but apparently that was not standard industry practice. Fobbing off garbage on hard-working employees, though, apparently was.

 

He sighed, and picked up his fork.

 

“Put that down, Ran. You're coming with me,” Farfarello said.

 

“Aw, Far, you fucker! Share with the rest of the class!” Ban whined, and Aya turned to see Farf standing behind him, holding a plain white bag with the words `La Mer du Pain' in fine script.

 

“The rest of the class isn't fucking worthy. C'mon, Ran, we haven't got all day.” He tapped his foot once, impatiently.

 

Aya looked across the table at Ban, who winked and grinned. “Get a move on, you fucktard.”

 

“Only here a week and John's buying him lunch already?” Cort griped, adjusting his sling around the cast on his wounded hand for the umpteenth time since he'd sat down, flashing Aya a dirty look that Aya couldn't have cared less about.

 

“Must be love,” Louis replied, blowing Aya a kiss.

 

“Must be a bribe, idiot,” Jarrod corrected, smacking Louis' head.

 

Aya smiled and stood up. “So long, losers,” he called as he followed Farfarello into the back, slamming the door to the kitchen against any response.

 

He expected to be heading to Farfarello's office, but they continued

walking out to the loading bay. Aya eyed the Irishman curiously as he jumped off a loading dock and waited for Aya to do the same. “Where are we going?” Aya asked after landing beside him.

 

“You'll see when we get there,” Farf replied.

 

“You're not helpful.”

 

“I don't strive to be.”

 

Farfarello kept walking, leading Aya across a busy intersection and down a block to a fifty-storey skyscraper. When he held a freight entrance door open, Aya hesitated. “What are we doing here, Farfarello?”

 

Farf's one yellow eye rolled. “Are ye coming or not?”

 

Aya sighed, and went through the door, following his boss into a large, grungy elevator that was obviously not meant for regular office workers. Farf would tell him what all this was about when he was good and ready, and not a second before.

 

Aya noticed the very good smell coming from the bag on their way up to the 48th floor. His stomach growled. He hoped Farf really had bought him lunch, and there wasn't something else entirely going on here.

 

They disembarked into a wide corridor, marble floors and granite-tiled walls, nothing but doors on either side of them. There was no one around. Farfarello headed down the corridor, stopping at a door labeled “Maintenance.” He tried the knob, then, finding it locked, took a curved piece of wire from his pocket and began picking the lock.

 

“Um…Farfarello, I don't think—“

 

“The maintenance guy knows me, don't worry about it. He offered to make me a key, but he'd get in trouble if someone found out he'd made a copy.” The door swung open, and Farf held it for Aya. “Besides, this way's more fun.”

 

Sighing, Aya entered the mop-and-bleach smelling, cramped supply room. He couldn't imagine why Farf would bring him here. He hoped the plan wasn't to eat in here; the smell was vaguely nauseating.

 

Farfarello squeezed past Aya to get to the far end of the little room, where there was a large panel set into the wall. It had a lock on it, and Farfarello picked that as well, and slid the panel aside. Daylight flooded into the dusty space, freshening the air. Farfarello tossed the white paper bag through the opening and then crawled through himself. For a moment Aya just stood there, watching the motes of dust in the sunlight, feeling that life was very surreal. Then Farf stuck his head back through the opening, calling, “What, are ye afraid of heights or something? C'mon!”

 

Aya shook himself, and crawled outside.

 

He found himself on a small, utilitarian…balcony, for lack of a better word, about three feet wide and eight feet long. There was a small, pigeon-dropping encrusted metal railing, giving marginal protection against certain death, ending in a gate at the far end. Aya had worked construction in Japan, but he'd never seen anything quite like this. He slid the panel closed behind him, making sure that it could be opened again before he shut it all the way. “What do they use this for?”

 

Farfarello was sitting cross-legged, resting his back against the building, with a supremely content look on his face. “Dunno,” he replied with half a shrug. “Larry—the maintenance guy—says he's never used it. I assume something to do with window-washing, but who can say? Sit down, Aya.”

 

Glaring at him for the command, Aya nevertheless sat down next to his boss, making sure to sit on the side of Farf's good eye, in a relatively un-pigeon-polluted spot. The view, he had to admit, was spectacular. Buildings sloping to the distant horizon, and the Mighty Mississip' a dark snake in the distance. It was a cool day, without much wind, and quiet. The sun was on the other side of the building so it didn't beat down on them, but the day was just warm enough to keep him from shivering. Aya suddenly felt a bit exhilarated. Not many people got to do things like this.

 

Farfarello interrupted his reverie by handing him a paper-wrapped sandwich. No, he discovered as he unwrapped it, it was half a sandwich, cut in half again. It was still enormous. The bread was crusty and smelled fresh. He couldn't really tell what was in the sandwich—looked like ham, maybe some other meats, and what looked like an awful lot of olives. He squeezed the bread tightly so he could get his mouth around it, mindful to catch the overspill in the paper.

 

It took him a bit of chewing to get used to the taste. It was meaty, sour, sweet, salty, herbed, fresh and a little yeasty all at once. He glanced over at Farfarello, who was munching away happily on one of his quarters. “What is this called?”

 

“It's a muffaletta sandwich. Sort of an Italian thing, sort of a Creole thing. What do you think?”

 

Aya chewed thoughtfully. “I like it a lot,” he decided. “These don't taste like regular canned olives.”

 

“That's because they aren't. They use Gaeta olives, Sicilian olives and…hm…I think Cerignola olives. Regular Manzanillas when they can't get Silcilian, and sometimes Kalamata, but not today.”

 

“Am I going to need to remember all that?” Aya asked, cracking a smile at Farf.

 

“Nah. We stick to French influence in Thibodeaux's.”

 

They ate in silence for a while. Aya was really enjoying himself, relaxing and admiring the vista and the clear blue sky, the fresh air and the quiet. He didn't even see any pigeons. When Farf handed him a can of not-quite-cold iced tea, he took it and looked at his boss, perusing the scars on his face. “What happened when you went back to Ireland?” he asked, realizing only after the question was out that he'd been wondering about it. Farf's eyebrows rose. “I'm sorry, I'm not sure what made me ask that. Forget it; it's none of my business.”

 

“No, it isn't any of your business,” Farfarello agreed, “but I've no reason not to tell ye. Sure ye want to know?”

 

Aya opened his mouth to say no. There was no reason he should give a damn about Farfarello's past. But…he had to admit he was still very curious. He shut his mouth and nodded.

 

Farfarello put down his half-finished muff and brushed his palms together a few times, turning slightly to face Aya. “I wanted to go back because I had so many conflicting memories in my head, that I didn't know what was real. That wouldn't have upset me ordinarily, but once I started on the anti-psychotics and anti-seizure drugs, I started thinking more rationally, so it started to bother me. I thought that if I traveled back to my pre-Esszet life, somehow I might find the answers I needed.

 

“It was really weird, for everyone involved, when I showed up in my old hometown. Blacksod,” he sighed, shifting a little. “Fuck, but that was beautiful country. The bay, the Isles of Inniskea, the fog on the water…ethereal. Makes ye feel like a Celtic warrior, ready to invade Britain and burn down some bloody farmhouses, kill the women and rape the men or whatever the hell they did. I never read much history.”

 

“I think the killing and raping part's backwards,” Aya said after swallowing, unable to hide a small smile.

 

“Eh, I don't think it mattered much. Blood and lust know no gender.”

 

“I'm not sure what that means.”

 

Farfarello waved a hand at him. “Moving on. Everyone in town seemed to recognize me—they acted like I was a ghost. All afraid. More than usual, I mean. But I finally got someone to talk to me. She was a friend of mum's that used to baby-sit for me and…” he stopped, and for a moment looked puzzled, as though trying to remember something important that eluded him. Then he gave a little shrug and continued. “She used to baby-sit my sister and me. Anyway it was from her that I first got confirmation that a lot of my childhood memories were definitely false. For example, I remember slowly kicking a dog to death when I was about seven. I remember the sound of its whimpering, the smell of the blood it coughed up, I remember feeling elated and scared, fascinated and repulsed—it's one of my most vivid memories. But I recalled specifically the dog I had done that to, and I was told by many different sources that it had died of old age long after I was taken away. One person, a girl I went to Sunday school with, even had pictures of the dog, playing with some kids in the street, after it had gotten pretty old. And there were numerous other incidents I remember quite clearly, that were proven to me to have never happened.

 

“That was the worst time for me, I think. I couldn't trust any of my memories and I didn't know who I was. Schwarz defined me for a long time, but now there was no Schwarz—not really—and I felt like I couldn't trust anyone or anything. Half the time I was convinced there was a conspiracy going on in the town against me, to screw with my head, perhaps set up by an Esszet faction, though I couldn't come up with a very good explanation for that. The other half of the time I was flailing around inside my head, trying to get a grasp on reality. I actually started to believe that Esszet and Schwarz were something my deluded brain had come up with on its own, while I'd been incarcerated in some government-run sanitarium. I wasn't sure if my family, even, was alive or dead, and if they were dead who had killed them. I was of at least two or three different minds about every recollection that came into my head. I was certain I was going back to straitjackets and padded walls and,” he shuddered visibly, “no knives. Part of me wanted it, though; part of me wanted to just give it all up and be crazy, to stop taking my meds and stop caring whether anything was real or not. To have my bloody vendetta against a lying Christian God to live for, and nothing else. It was simple for me then. Everything fit into place; I was certain of things. I wanted that again. Sometimes I still do.

 

“It was Sean—remember, the former sous?” Aya nodded. “I'd never met him before I returned, but he hounded me a lot because I was the perpetrator of the most interesting thing that ever happened in Blacksod. Pissed me right off, but for some reason I never killed him. He eventually set me straight. He said, if my memory is correct,” he smirked at Aya, and Aya was certain he would have winked if he'd had two eyes, “that if I couldn't rely on my memory, then I should quit fucking worrying about it and live in the moment. I'm pretty certain he was just being an asshole, but…it was like my life had turned into a dream, and that woke me up. I decided then and there that whatever I remembered at the moment was good enough, and that whatever present I was experiencing was good enough, and fuck what was real or not real. If one day I remembered being a maniacal killer who'd been experimented on by a secret organization of psychic Talents, then that was my life. If the next day I remembered being in an institution for years and years, screaming and knocking about on padded walls and staring forever out of windows, then that was my life. Maybe the things I remembered were happening in different dimensions or parallel universes or some shit like that. It didn't matter. I decided it was worth it to try for, if not sanity, at least some measure of rationality.”

 

“Is it still like that for you?” Aya asked, eyes wide. Farfarello always seemed so lucid, so in control. He wiped his hands on a napkin and put his trash in the paper bag. “I mean, do you still remember one past one day and another the next? And what is the cut-off point for the `past?' Were your memories only mixed up about things that happened years ago, or about things that happened yesterday?”

 

Farfarello smiled. It was a soft, glowing smile that made his face look angelic—not cherubic, but powerful, terrible and beautiful. Aya's heart gave a painful thud against his ribs. “I don't know if it's the long-term effects of the medication or what, but a lot of memories have more or less solidified for me. I'm pretty confident in my memory—my lucid memory—all the way back to when I was in that fucking cell in Rosenkreuz. Beyond that, things get more confused.”

 

Aya pondered this, watching shadows playing over the muscles on Farfarello's arms. He couldn't imagine experiencing something like the semi-madman had just described. It was just too far out of his realm. “So…what happened after?”

 

Farf eyed him curiously. “I went to work in Sean's father's café, and discovered I liked cooking. Crawford never let Schu or me near the stove if he could help it, so I'd never really done it before. And I had money because of Crawford. Esszet refused to pay me wages at first, since I was a Berserker, and not an actual human agent in their eyes, whether I was in the field or not. Crawford argued and finally got them to grudgingly pay out a sort of minimum stipend for my care and feeding, which he invested for me. I didn't really care whether I got paid or not as long as I was given what I wanted, when I wanted it. I seldom asked for things, and Crawford went out of his way to make sure that—if the request was reasonable—I got what I asked for. Knives, candy, weights…he even kept me in violins. He'd never get me a very expensive one, because he knew I'd break it when I threw a fit about something, but he kept them coming since I was actually practicing and getting decent at it. And anything unreasonable I wanted, I could get from Schu or even Nagi, if I caught him in the right mood. Heh,” Farf chuckled. “Listen to me going on. I don't think I've ever talked so much at once.”

 

“You can stop if you like,” Aya said, though he didn't really want him to. He'd never noticed how soothing the deep, gravelly timbre of Farfarello's voice was. “Though I'm enjoying listening to you.”

 

Farf looked surprised at that, and smiled again. “I think I was eventually coming to the point of the money tangent. As I said, Crawford invested the stipend and also took a small portion of Schuldig's, Nagi's and his own wages to add to my account. Schu fought a little over that at first, but since they were all still making very good money and my wage was way below theirs, he decided it wasn't worth making a fuss about.”

 

“Crawford really put some of his own wages aside for you?” Aya was incredulous. Crawford had always struck him as the consummate ruthless businessman. The precognition seemed almost incidental.

 

“He did. Nagi even showed me the books—Crawford kept meticulous books, of course. Compared to his, mine are a mess. But I learned a lot by studying them.

 

“Anyway, because of Crawford I had a sizeable portfolio. Crawford's words. I don't know a damn thing about stocks and I never will if I can help it. Crawford contacted me in Ireland, who knows how, and said that he would transfer whatever money I needed from investment accounts to savings and checking for me if I wanted. So that's how I was able to pick a school in France and pay for it for Sean and I—Sean basically came along for the ride. He was good at cooking, and he did really well, but he never had much interest in it. Of course he didn't have much interest in anything else, either, so he decided it was just as well if it would get him out of Blacksod. Nagi hacked admissions for us, and would have hacked the cashier as well, but I wanted to pay for it. Made me feel more independent.

 

“Then after graduation, Sean and I kicked around Europe and America for two years, going from restaurant to restaurant, sometimes working in the same kitchen and sometimes not. The long hours got to Sean and he started doing coke. I think I've told ye before, a lot of chefs have a habit. It's a stressful industry. Ye have no idea just how good the set-up at Thibodeaux's is. I worked in this place once—a really famous restaurant with very mediocre food—where the kitchen was so cramped, and the humidity from the steam tables was so hot and so much that we were constantly fighting athlete's foot and other nasty fungal conditions. The locker room there stank like demon armpits. Not to mention heat rash from the grill,” he sighed. “Plus, the boss liked to keep the place understaffed so we were constantly forced to do double-shifts with no overtime. I was there six months before I finally found a better gig.” He took a gulp from his can of tea. “Okay, I've been talking long enough. It's time for ye to talk about yourself.”

 

“Quid pro quo?” Aya asked, amused.

 

Farfarello grinned his scary grin. “Have the lambs stopped screaming, Clarice?” he inquired, sounding positively sultry. A thread of fire shot through Aya's torso, even though he had no idea what Farfarello was talking about. He threw Farf a bemused look, and Farf shook his head, tsking. “It's a film reference. Ye have no culture, Aya. But we'll worry about that later. Now, you speak.” He took a large bite of his unfinished sandwich.

 

Aya felt suddenly twitchy. He didn't like being put on the spot. “I don't know what to talk about.”

 

Farf finished chewing, and said, “Tell me how ye got into kendo.”

 

“Oh…that's not a very interesting story.”

 

“Tell it anyway.”

 

“Um…well, my father's friend ran a dojo, and I started going to it when I was seven. My father insisted—he wanted something about me to be manly. He used to joke about having two daughters. Made me really angry. I mean, how manly was I supposed to be when I was seven?” Aya shifted. He wasn't used to revealing so much personal information. But Farfarello had shared with him, so he felt obliged to return the favor.

 

“Mm. So ye practiced hard to prove your worth to your father, never knowing that ye were training for your future profession.”

 

Aya sighed, the thought settling him in gloom. “That's about the size of it. I never even used a real katana until Sendai, with my first Kritiker team.” He turned to Farf again. “Did Esszet train you in bladed combat, do you remember?”

 

“I remember some training. Most of what I remember is unarmed combat training, though. I'm not sure how or when I mastered the blades, since I recall a lot of effort being expended to keep dangerous objects away from me. Not sure by who or to what purpose—I'm quite dangerous enough with my bare hands. By the time Crawford recruited me I could already handle the blades, so I guess I must have had some weapons training somewhere along the line. Speaking of weapons, what are ye going to use tonight?”

 

Aya thought of the weapons he'd stashed in his trenchcoat that was now in the trunk of his car. His chest felt like it was full of stones. This must be the real reason Farfarello had brought him up here—damn little chance of anyone overhearing them. “Well…I didn't want to use the katana, since that would be fairly noticeable and someone might be able to associate it with me. The cuts can be pretty distinctive.”

 

“A long shot, but definitely a possibility,” Farf agreed. “It amazes me sometimes that you're so pretty and yet not dumb as a rock.”

 

“I'm not pretty,” Aya grumbled, blushing. “Was that supposed to be a compliment?”

 

Farf shrugged. “Observation. So what did ye bring?”

 

“A Beretta and a kukri.”

 

Farf whipped around to face him fully, his eye wide, an expression that Aya couldn't read at all distorting his features. “You're…a kukri? Are ye fucking serious?”

 

Aya arched an eyebrow, wondering if he should feel nervous. “Yeah,” he replied hesitantly. “There's no reason I wouldn't be.”

 

Farfarello lunged forward, grabbing Aya hard by the biceps and nearly giving him a heart attack as they slid a bit—there was only the not-terribly-sturdy railing between him and death-by-physics. He put his palms on Farfarello's chest to ward him off, but looking in the madman's eye again showed him instantly that this was not a display of aggression. Aya could almost swear that there were actual sparkles in the yellow iris. “Aya! Have ye used it before? Can ye use it well, are ye good with it?”

 

“I…” Aya swallowed, barely able to form a coherent thought as he became aware of the fingers of heat lightning spreading through his abdomen at Farf's proximity. He'd never been so close to the man—not when they were focused on each other, anyway. The chest was hard and sculpted under his fingers and the jacket, and Farf's hands on his arms were scorching. He felt like a hedgehog in the grip of a hawk—a phoenix, even, burning white. “I can use it well enough,” Aya managed. “I was considering using a tanto or a hunting knife, but I feel like…since I'm not using the katana, I wanted something that would force me to use a powerful attack to be effective.” Farfarello was staring raptly at Aya as he talked, still gripping his arms hard, and so close that Aya could feel his body heat. The heart under his hands was beating faster now. Farf smelled unbelievably good for someone who'd been working in a hot kitchen most of the day. Aya wanted to bite him, and wondered if Farfarello would mind. He felt his checks getting tighter, and was glad his jacket was long enough to hide what must be a pretty obvious bulge. His barely noticed that his somber mood was gone, and felt like he would talk about anything at all for as long as he could stand it, if it would keep that expression on Farfarello's face, and keep those hands wrapped around his arms. “The only problem is that it will be very messy, but if I hit at the right angle I shouldn't get too much blood on me. If I chop the right way it won't leave too much of a signature on the body. Of course, I'll need to have some sort of a mission plan to know if a close combat stealth attack is even feasible.”

 

Farf was grinning like he meant to split his face apart. “I want to come with ye,” he breathed vehemently, an almost-whine in his voice. “I would love to watch ye using that. Ye should make sure your victim sees ye coming, so he can witness such a beautiful send-off. You'll take his breath before ye take his life.”

 

Aya was starting to feel lightheaded; all the blood in his brain must have been flowing to his hard-on. “So come with me,” he uttered, his voice rough and deep. He didn't know if he hoped Farfarello noticed his arousal, or hoped he didn't. He can probably smell it, Aya thought, and for some reason the idea had him fighting back a moan and trying not to melt.

 

The light faded from the albino's eye, and his grin vanished in lieu of a more serious expression. “I wish I could,” he sighed, releasing Aya's arms. Aya noticed with some chagrin that he had unconsciously fisted his hands in the fabric of Farf's whites, and he had to focus to get his fingers to let go as Farfarello pulled gently away. “I have responsibilities that must take precedence over recreation.”

 

Recreation…watching Aya killing someone was recreation? As if a bucket of cold water had been dumped over him, Aya realized that for Farfarello, it most definitely was. And he'd been feeding the man's sick obsession himself, just now. And getting off on it. He was a travesty in human form.

 

“I have your mission plan on the laptop at home,” Farf was saying. “I'll give ye your passwords and all that when we get back there. We'll leave Thibodeaux's about eight, and I'll lead ye home and introduce ye to the dogs, give ye a key and whatever else you'll need. Then I've got to go back to work. Ye won't need to leave until about ten. I might get back before ye, but it depends on a few variables—you'll see. It's a very straightforward mission, though. You'll be able to use the kukri.” His face lit again, fleetingly. “I'm glad ye thought to bring the gun along too, though. All these mafia shits have guns. Hell, everyone in America has a gun, I think.”

 

“Do you have one?” Aya asked, glad to think for a moment about something other than himself.

 

Farfarello smirked, reached under the hem of his jacket and—Aya couldn't tell from exactly where—produced an impressive desert eagle. “It's mostly for show,” he admitted, stowing it back under his jacket, “to promote the expediency of negotiations. People don't seem to understand that I'm far more deadly with a blade than a gun.”

 

“Really?” Aya was quite surprised Farf would say something that hinted at a weakness.

 

Farf tapped his eyepatch. “I lack depth perception. I'm a good shot, but not a great shot. You were there when I shot old Takatori's daughter, right?”

 

Aya stiffened. It had been a long time ago, and he didn't think he'd thought about it once since coming to America. “That's right,” he remembered, “you killed Omi's sister.”

 

Farf waved the matter off. “Cousin. Whatever. My point is, I was aiming for Omi. It was Schuldig's idea; he knows I'm not anywhere near the shooter he is and thought it would be funny. Of course, we both got the club for that one.”

 

“Schuldig thought—“ Aya fought down a surge of anger at the memory of Omi holding the girl in his arms, wailing into the rain. He hadn't been fond of Ouka, but he'd been very fond of Omi at the time, and could empathize with the loss of a family member. Even though Omi had only known she was a family member for about a minute before she was killed. He forced his ire away; Schuldig wasn't that casually cruel bastard anymore, at least not with people he gave a damn about. Aya thought for a minute. He really didn't know Schuldig very well, come to think of it. He might still be cruel under those same circumstances today, and he might never have been so horrid to anyone he cared for. Schuldig might not be any different from how he used to be, actually. He couldn't really say. Then something else Farfarello had said hit him. “You got the club? What does that mean?”

 

“Old man Takatori used to like to take out his aggressions with a set of golf clubs. He whacked the hell out of his subordinates all the time.”

 

Aya's eyes widened. “I'm not surprised to hear that about him, but I'm surprised to hear that he used it on Schwarz. At the very least, couldn't Nagi have stopped him?”

 

“That was the only time he beat any of Schwarz. Crawford instructed Schuldig and I to let him do it. It really hurt Schu's pride. I didn't give a fuck—didn't hurt me, naturally, and he didn't go after me that hard—but Schu got some fractured bones and was bruised up for a couple of weeks. He was really fucking pissed. In fact you're lucky that we left Takatori for ye to finish off, because Schuldig practically begged Crawford to let him kill the old bastard.”

 

Aya shifted restlessly. The wind had gotten a little higher, but otherwise it was still a beautiful place to be. It still felt very surreal, and he supposed that was why this conversation wasn't bothering him much. He wondered if he was dreaming. “Why did you leave him for me, then?” he asked.

 

Farf shrugged. “Crawford said you'd get despondent and careless if ye didn't get to kill him yourself, and it would've screwed up his plans if ye got yourself killed before the Elders came to Japan.”

 

Aya scratched his chin. “I guess that makes sense,” he decided. “I still don't get why you included Weiss in your plans, though. Couldn't you have taken the Elders out yourselves, since you have superpowers?”

 

Farf snorted. “Superpowers, sheesh…They weren't our plans, they were Crawford's plans. None of us were privy to many of the details, not even Schu, though he got a lot more out of Crawford than Nagi or I ever did. Crawford's real talent, I think, even more than seeing the future, is getting people who don't even like him very much to trust him and go along with what he wants. Even Weiss did exactly what he wanted ye to, whether ye knew ye were doing it or not. All I know about your involvement in our esteemed leader's plans—which I heard from Schu—was that if we went to take out the Elders on our own, they would be able to stop us, because they knew our strengths and weaknesses and were prepared to use them against us. They knew about Kritiker, and they knew ye were a part of Kritiker and were looking for your sister, but they didn't believe a team of Kritiker's had the strength or resources necessary to either find or pose any sort of threat to them. That little show at the airport—remember, when Schu had that girl, what'sername, shoot ye?—that was like a display of loyalty. Not that they didn't believe we'd turn against them, but they believed that we wouldn't use such weak tools. No offense. It's just how a lot of Talents see non-talents.”

 

“That…actually explains a lot. I think.” Aya rubbed his shoulder absently over the place where Sakura's bullet had struck him. The scar was still visible, a faint silver blemish. He hadn't thought about Sakura in years. He wondered how she was doing, if Aya-chan still kept in touch with her.

 

Aya-chan…

 

Farf raised an eyebrow at Aya. “Something wrong?”

 

“No,” Aya replied automatically, then sighed. “Yes. Maybe.”

 

“Hm.”

 

Aya waited for the obligatory `Wanna talk about it?' from Farfarello, but after several seconds of silence he gave a sidelong glance and saw the albino staring off into the distance, looking very content. Aya smiled and shook his head minutely. He was surprised to find that he wanted Farfarello's opinion. He had actually come to respect and rely on Farf, even though they'd only been working closely together for a week. It felt like so much longer. “I…would you mind if I ran it by you?”

 

“I wouldn't have asked about it if I minded.”

 

“My…my little sister is planning on coming to visit me in a little over a week. I'm not sure I want to see her. I mean, I want to see her, but I…” Aya trailed off. Words were just not his friends. “She deserves better,” he mumbled.

 

Farfarello snickered. Aya glanced sharply over at him. “Better than what, Aya?”

 

“Better than me. Better than a life where she'll be constantly hunted by Esszet. I was too selfish—I should have left her alone after she woke up, let her think I was dead and trusted Kritiker's agents to watch over her. Living with her…not only did I drive her away from me, but I probably put her in more danger just by—mmph.” Aya's eyes flew wide as a white hand clamped over his mouth.

 

Farfarello was looking at him with a very narrow eagle eye. “Stop whining.”

 

Aya's eyes widened even more, and he shoved Farfarello's hand away angrily. “You said you didn't mind if I talked about it. Don't say things you don't mean.”

 

“Whining about shit ye can't change isn't telling me what's bothering ye. So tell me what's bothering ye.”

 

“I was!” he exclaimed. Farfarello shook his head and said nothing, making Aya fume. “Maybe we should get back to the restaurant,” he said coldly.

 

Farfarello sighed impatiently. “We're not leaving while you're pissed off. Just calm down and think about it for a second. What is it about seeing your sister again that really bothers ye?”

 

Aya decided to ignore him, but after a few minutes of angry silence, found himself thinking about the question anyway. “I'm still a murderer,” he said softly, almost to himself. “I don't want her to have a murderer as her only family. At least when I was living with her, I wasn't killing anyone, but now…”

 

“Ye haven't killed anyone for five years. Does that make ye less of a murderer now than ye were five years ago?”

 

“I don't know. I had hoped I could change. I thought I had changed.” Aya stared at his hands, which hung limply between his knees.

 

“From what I've heard, your troubles didn't end when ye stopped being an assassin. And you've accepted a mission from me, with more to follow. Why do ye suppose that is?”

 

“I…” Aya felt tears threatening again and forced them away. “It's all I can do.”

 

“Bullshit. You're good at it, but it's not all ye can do. Haven't ye proved that over the last couple of weeks, if not before? No, ye want to know what I think your real dilemma is?”

 

Aya looked over at him. “I'm not sure I do.”

 

A heavy gust of wind blew some loose strands of Farf's hair over his shoulder. Aya felt the platform sway a little underneath him. “Ye like being an assassin.”

 

Aya's heart froze for a few seconds as his mouth dropped open. “That's not true at all!” he cried, when he could speak again.

 

“No?” Farfarello turned to face Aya, suddenly kneeling right in front of him again with a movement almost too fast for Aya to follow. There was a gleam in Farf's eye that reminded Aya of fighting him on the street in the rain, years ago. “I've watched ye fight, Fujimiya. I've seen surveillance tapes, I've seen your victims, I've fought ye and looked into your eyes. I've smelled your adrenaline-high. I've seen ye licking blood off your lips and smiling. I've heard ye laughing when ye fight someone skilled and win. I see how ye handle your weapon, how ye look at it. Don't tell me ye don't like it. Don't tell me ye don't live for it, because it was all that kept ye going for a long time. Ye didn't even hesitate to accept when I offered ye the chance to get back into it. Ye got so depressed without it ye were ready to die.”

 

“That's wrong! That—“ Aya stopped as he heard the high note of panic in his voice. “No,” he said softly. “No.”

 

“Ye can't lie about that to someone like me, even if ye can lie to yourself. I know the joys, Aya. I know the taste, the smell, the feel. I know them. The sound of a blade tearing through flesh, severing bones. The purity, the beauty of a spray of blood, the snap of a neck.”

 

“No…” Aya whispered, mesmerized by Farfarello's penetrating yellow eye.

 

“The smell of great men shitting themselves because they know they're going to die, they know ye have the power. The defiance in the eyes of the brave or the stupid, the resignation when they realize the futility of struggle, the last light in the eyes going out, wiping the blood on a dead man's jacket. The feeling that every life ye take is precious and sacred, and that your actions are momentous. Feeling the world shift just a little around ye, for good or ill, because of what you've done. How many lives have ye taken, Aya?”

 

Trembling, Aya murmured, “I don't know.” He had kept a journal, when he started out, of everyone he killed, but he'd stopped doing it after a while, when he started with Weiss and was unable to keep track who had killed who. He usually killed the target, but there were sometimes an awful lot of goons and guards between Weiss and the target, and things would get chaotic.

 

“In the hundreds, yes?”

 

Aya closed his eyes and lowered his head, pained at the reminder. “Yes.”

 

“Do ye honestly believe ye hated every single moment of that?” Farf asked, tilting Aya's face back up with a gentle thumb.

 

“I did,” Aya insisted, but it sounded weak. He was so confused.

 

“Do ye believe that you'll be less damned if ye don't enjoy being an assassin, or admit to enjoying it, even to yourself?”

 

“I don't know,” Aya admitted. “Maybe. I don't want to be the kind of person who enjoys…” He choked on the word, unable to speak as the truth dawned on him—the exhilaration he felt as he swept through his enemies like a hurricane. The elation when he killed his family's destroyer. Even the pleasure of breaking Cort's fingers. But those feelings always faded into bleakness and despair. “I'm not like you,” he managed, smiling weakly. “I can't live with myself if that's who I am.”

 

Farfarello laced his fingers loosely behind Aya's neck, under his braid, rubbing soothing circles with his thumbs on the back of Aya's head. “Listen to me,” he began, voice low and serious. “You and I, we've gone so far down the path of no return that it's become a different road. We can do things other people can only dream of, or would never take the chance to try. We're free, Aya. More than anyone else in this world, we're free.”

 

“I don't feel that way,” Aya countered. “You…we're slaves to our obsessions, our professions.”

 

“Your man Ken was a slave, it's true.” Aya gasped, tried to pull back, but Farfarello laced his fingers more tightly. “Schuldig and Crawford told me about him. His mind was damaged, more than mine is now, and he was a slave. I was a slave to Esszet, to my vendetta, but now I'm not. Now I choose my bliss, if ye follow me. When I bring out my knives, whether it's in the kitchen or in a midnight alley, it's because I want to, because I choose to, because I love it. Ye accepted my proposal for the same reason.”

 

Aya didn't know what to say. Farfarello couldn't possibly be right. But he didn't feel horror at the notions the madman was putting forth, only dim sadness. Aya felt tears slip out of his wide eyes. “Shit,” he murmured, blinking away some more, embarrassed. When had he become such a whiny crybaby?

 

Farfarello leaned forward until their foreheads were touching. “If anyone in this world can feel what ye feel, it's me, Aya.” His breath was softly olive-scented. Aya wished Farfarello would stop talking. If he stopped talking, maybe Aya could get a grip again. “Ye don't have to lie to me, not about this. Ye know I understand.”

 

Aya raised his hands to Farfarello's forearms, meaning to shove them away, but gripping them tightly instead. It was like wrapping his fingers around rods of steel sheathed in rough, scarred silk. “What does this have to do with my sister?” he asked.

 

“Well, this is what you're afraid of her finding out, isn't it? This is your most closely guarded secret. You're generally an honest person by nature, and ye don't like keeping secrets from people who are close to ye. But I'd advise ye to keep this one. It's just not necessary for her to know. Since you're such a martyr—“ here Aya glared at him, “—ye might think telling her, which in your mind would be akin to forcing her to hate ye, would help ye atone, but all it would do is create more strife for everyone. You're used to doing things for her sake, yes? So don't tell her for her sake, if not your own. That's my advice, if ye want it.”

 

Aya laughed weakly. “You don't even know her.”

 

“I know you,” Farfarello asserted, pulling back a little to focus on Aya's face.

 

Inexplicably, Aya felt an enormous weight fall from his shoulders and from his chest. He was unable to suppress a smile that stretched his lips almost painfully. He wrapped his arms around Farfarello's back and pulled forward, hugging him tightly. “Thank you. Sensei,” he chuckled, “I don't know why, I still think you're insane, or at least wrong, but thank you.”

 

Farfarello made a pleasant rumbling sound in his throat, almost like the purr of a great jungle beast, and held him closer. Aya wanted to crawl in his lap and wrap his legs around that iron-hard abdomen. He'd never denied his attraction to his new boss, as odd as it felt, but he'd never been so close to acting on it either. He realized his breathing had sped up unconsciously. Farfarello wasn't the type to miss a detail like that. He had to know that Aya wanted him.

 

The memory of Farfarello riding Sally flashed through his mind, feeding his doubts. Maybe Farf wasn't…?

 

Before he'd finished the thought, Farfarello jerked away, scrambling for the remains of Aya's sandwich. Aya sat back, baffled, as Farf quickly squeezed a small lump of bread into a ball, and tossed it into the air. It hit a pigeon in the head, while it was on the wing. The bird made a sound somewhere between a coo and an unlovely squawk, and dove away, possibly after the bread but just as likely to escape its assaulter. Aya's brow furrowed as he stared at the madman, who was making another bread ball. “That was nothing. Watch this,” he said, standing up and stepping over to the railing. Dubious, Aya stood up as well.

 

Farfarello scanned the street, so far below them. Aya felt slight vertigo at first, as he always did when looking down from such a height, but he was used to it and it didn't bother him. It was gone after a couple of seconds. “What are you doing?”

 

“Watch that guy with the pink hat. See him?”

 

Aya looked down and squinted, barely making out the person Farfarello was talking about after a few seconds. It was quite a loud hat, even from this distance. He couldn't tell if they were male or female. “Um, you're not going to—“

 

Before he finished his sentence, Farfarello had taken a couple of steps away from him and let the ball of bread drop from his fingers. Aya's head whipped back down to the pink hat. After several seconds, the person jerked around, and began looking in all directions, creating a small commotion. Farfarello laughed and leaned back against the wall of the building. “Took me forever to get good at that.”

 

“Uh. Yeah. You have strange hobbies. I thought you weren't a good shot?”

 

“I'm better with bread balls than bullets. Unfortunately, they're not very deadly. I can throw knives, though. I only remember missing once with a knife, a long time ago, and that was just because they ran out of range. Well, except when I missed on purpose. It's a different skill.”

 

Aya shook his head, shivering as the wind started blowing, colder than before. Sunset was approaching; Aya wondered just how long they'd been out on the balcony.

 

Farfarello sighed. “I guess we'd better get back. Don't tell anyone about this place, okay? There's hardly anyone who knows about it besides you, me and Larry, and I like it that way.”

 

“Sure.”

 

As they crawled back through the panel into the storage room, Aya thought of another question. “Farfarello,” he began, “you said Sean was your partner in these…missions. How did that come about?”

 

Farfarello smiled at him. “Story for another day, Aya.”

 

Aya nodded. “Okay.”

 

They rode the elevator down and walked back to the restaurant in companionable silence. When they got there, Louis was outside taking a smoke break. He grinned at Farfarello as they approached the back door. “Guess who's here, John.”

 

Farfarello raised an inquiring eyebrow.

 

“Desiree.” Louis said the name almost reverently.

 

Farfarello snorted and turned to Aya. “Come meet Desiree, Ran.”

 

Louis held the door open for them and winked at Aya. “She won't take kindly to you going off with her man for so long, making her wait. But I'll protect you, my pretty cachundo.”

 

Ignoring Louis, Aya asked, “Her man?”

 

Farfarello shrugged. “If I can be said to have a girlfriend, she's it,” he explained.

 

“Ah.” Some of the weight that had lifted came back to settle in Aya's chest and stomach, but he pushed away envy and jealousy. He had two lovers himself already, anyway. Not that he wanted to be in that sort of ménage-à-trois relationship forever…

 

They emerged into the kitchen, and Aya saw Desiree right away, sitting on one of the prep tables. It would have been impossible to miss her, as striking as she was. Her skin was the most perfect black Aya had ever seen, inky and almost shimmering, like a pool of moonlit water. She wore a long, simple, burgundy dress that left her arms bare and clung to her ample curves. Her limbs were long, almost Amazonian, and her hair spilled over her shoulders in dozens of tiny braids. Aya couldn't see her face, but he knew she must be beautiful from the way everyone was fawning over her. She laughed, deep and throaty, a sound that went straight to the groin. As they neared, she turned to face them, and Aya's breath caught in his throat. Her face was beautiful. Not European beautiful, but older, more stirring, as though she was an ancient goddess. Aya shook his head minutely. He didn't think things like that. He was probably still dreaming.

 

She poured off the table in a liquid movement, striding with unmatched assurance over to Farfarello, eyeing Aya out of the corner of her eye. “Who is this, that he can make you late for me, John Farlane?” her husky voice asked, a note of amusement in it. Aya couldn't place her accent. Perhaps it was African. He didn't know the first thing about Africa.

 

“I didn't know you were coming, Shadow, or I wouldn't have been late,” Farf replied, slipping an arm around her waist and kissing her cheek lightly. He turned to Aya. “This is Ran, our new sous-chef.”

 

Ran bowed deeply, much more so than was warranted for a first meeting of this kind, but he almost felt like he should kneel before her, or lower his forehead to the ground. He'd never been in the presence of anyone like her.

 

She smiled at him as he stood upright again, her expression relaxed, knowing. “You'll take care of this one for me, won't you, Ran?” she purred, running a finger along Farfarello's jaw.

 

“H—hai. I mean, yes.” He wasn't sure what she meant, but he couldn't have answered any other way.

 

“I know that you will,” was her cryptic reply, and she turned back to Farf. “M'maw has truffles for you, black and white. Will you come to get them?”

 

Farfarello's eye lit up. “Absolutely. Ran, her family are the Proulx, you remember?”

 

Aya ran the name through his brain, remembering where he'd read it. “Unofficial fruit and vegetable purveyors.”

 

“Yes, good. You want to come with us? I'll probably have to send you over to them sometime anyway, so you might as well know where they are.”

 

Aya glanced at Desiree, uncomfortable with the thought of tagging along like a third wheel. Desiree gave him a sexy wink and a slight nod, but he shook his head. “No, I'd better stay here.” Things were getting a little hectic around them, so it was a reasonable enough decision.

 

“You be sure to come along next time then, Ran,” Desiree said, running a long-nailed, shapely finger down Aya's breastbone. He shivered slightly and felt his cheeks heat up. He felt a little like a mouse squirming under the paw of a panther.

 

She gave another throaty, groin-stiffening chuckle and breezed by him in a whiff of bittersweet chocolate and unidentifiable spice.

 

Ran let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding and jumped a little, startled, when Farfarello touched his arm. “I'll be back by eight. Be ready to go,” he said, and left.

 

Aya just stood there for a few seconds, before Jarrod nudged him. “Wake up, chicken-brains. The line's about to fall behind since you were out having a private lunch—“ he made quotes with his fingers, “—with the boss.”

 

Aya schooled his face perfectly. “Are you insinuating something?” he asked, glaring.

 

Jarrod blanched a little. “Er…not really.”

 

“Good.” Checking his hair to make sure it was tied back properly, Aya pushed his sleeves up, grabbed a knife and got to work.

 

******

 

Aya waited in the dark office, tucked in the corner behind the door. He'd only met one guard, and his death had been grislier than Aya had meant it to be. It had been a long, long time since he had used the kukri. It was a custom blade, about ten inches long, and beveled to maximize chopping and slicing ability. He had meant to just sever the skinny guard's spine and question him a little before killing him, but had ended up chopping the man completely in half. Obviously he needed more practice.

 

He had felt a tiny bit smug at first, because he was in his mission zone and hadn't felt anything like exhilaration at the kill, only calculation as he worked out the error of his force and trajectory. But then, he knew he was actively working to suppress his emotions, as he'd done for years. The only emotion he hadn't been able to suppress was righteous fury, which he certainly wasn't feeling at the moment. The mission plan hadn't described any crime this person had committed—part of the reason Aya had wanted to question the guard—only when, where, and what the circumstances were for the job to be completed. It certainly wasn't like Kritiker. So what did he really feel now?

 

His brows drew together in irritation. This was all that pasty bastard's fault. He'd never asked himself these kinds of questions on a mission before. Farfarello was really throwing him off his stride.

 

He tried to get back into his zone, but the question nibbled at his brain, refusing to leave him alone. Over and over the conversation played out in his mind, and Farfarello's eye seemed to hover in the darkness before him, narrow and wise. Flaying the layers off him as with a scalpel.

 

Aya was thinking about the matter so much he almost missed the approaching footsteps. He called up his discipline, but the familiar coldness still eluded him. A bubble of anxiety formed in his belly, and he quelled it as the door opened. Surprisingly, the man turned immediately to check behind the door—well, he was part of a Family, so it wasn't as surprising as it would've been otherwise. Aya was ready, and struck like lightning, though it seemed almost like slow motion to him. He flipped the kukri over in his hand, whipped it out backwards and sliced clean through the man's neck with one powerful stroke. He hadn't even used much of his upper-body strength, or moved his arm much above the elbow. He kicked the body away before it could fall toward him and get him bloody. Aya realized with a shock that he was grinning, that he was pleased.

 

Shit. Somewhere along the way, he'd gone just as insane as Ken and Farfarello.

 

 

******

 

Aya unlocked the door to Farfarello's apartment and walked in slowly, lost in thought. He had noticed Farf's car in the lot, but didn't know if he hoped the madman would be asleep or not.

 

Darius and Romulus padded over to sniff his hands in greeting, and then silently abandoned him in favor of the living room rug in front of the fireplace, where there was a good-sized blaze going, filling the room with cheery warmth. It felt very good, and Aya felt himself relaxing a little.

 

He looked to Farf's bedroom door, where the full bathroom was. He'd never used it—there was a half-bath for guests off the front hall—but Farf had told him to use it if he needed to shower or clean anything. His coat sleeves and the gloves in his trenchcoat pockets were the only things that had gotten bloody, but Aya always showered after missions regardless. Still, if Farfarello was asleep, he didn't feel like waking him up. Farf was pretty good about knowing when not to ask questions, but he kept catching Aya off-guard anyway. He decided to just throw his coat out on the balcony and deal with it tomorrow. The couch was already made up for him, and it looked very inviting.

 

As Aya closed the sliding door after pitching his coat out, he heard the bedroom door open. He turned as Farfarello came out into the dining area, toweling his hair off, another towel cinched around his waist. The eyepatch was firmly in place as always, and Aya wondered if he showered with it. His eyes were drawn inevitably to the chiseled masterpiece of Farfarello's torso. He looked incredibly sensual, with the towel riding low on his hips, skin pale flickering gold in the firelight, long hair slightly unkempt, lips heat-swollen from the shower, tempting shadows playing across his muscles.

 

As he approached, Aya noticed a small line of dots curling above his hipbones on either side. Glad for a distraction, he pointed to them. “What're those dots?”

 

Farf side-stepped him and hit a light switch on the wall, dispelling the mysteries of the firelight. Before Aya could lament this, Farf gathered his hair and flung it over his shoulder so it all hung in front, and turned around.

 

Aya gasped.

 

Swirling patterns of dots covered the planes of Farfarello's back, in subtle jewel-tones, almost iridescent. Some were as large as an eighth of an inch in diameter, some barely more than a pinpoint. Aya reached out to touch a row of red whorls, surprised to find that the dots were actually smooth raised bumps on the skin, reminding him of Braille. When he stood back and looked at the patterns, it almost looked like a mosaic of butterfly wings. “What is that?” he wondered.

 

“Scarification,” Farf said. “Took me over a year to do.”

 

He shouldn't be surprised by anything the man said anymore. “You did all that yourself?”

 

“Mmhmm.” Farf turned back around, flipping his hair back over his shoulders. “Took a lot of mirrors and a lot of cursing, but it came out pretty nice.”

 

“It's beautiful. All the curves follow your muscles perfectly, and the dots are so evenly spaced. It's much better than a tattoo.”

 

Farfarello beamed at him. “Isn't it? I saw some people doing this on the Discovery Channel one day and bugged Crawford until he went out and bought the tools and the ink for me. Schuldig wanted to do the scarring for me, but I didn't trust him to do it the way I wanted it done.”

 

“Wise choice,” Aya said.

 

“I would have had to flay my skin off if he'd inscribed `Schuldig's bitch' or something like that, which would have been a major pain in the ass.”

 

Aya chuckled, his eyes straying to the tantalizing line of little scars above his hipbones, longing to touch them, trace them with his fingers and tongue. He forced his eyes up to Farfarello's face, studying the familiar eyepatch. “Do you ever take that off?” he asked, motioning to the patch with a flick of his eyes.

 

Farfarello stiffened slightly, saying, “No. Not in front of people.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“Do ye want to see?”

 

“You'd show me?”

 

“Yes. Don't tell anyone outside of Schwarz. No one else has seen it, not even Shadow.”

 

Aya felt strangely touched. “I won't.”

 

“Not Yohji, not anyone.”

 

“I won't.”

 

He reached for the bands holding it in place, and paused. “Sure ye want to see it? It's not pretty.”

 

Aya smiled at Farf's hesitation, which smacked a little of vanity. “I didn't think it would be.”

 

Farf searched his face for a second, gave a small shrug and lifted off the patch.

 

Aya wondered why Farfarello was so reluctant to show it to him. Sure, there was a lot of scar tissue, even on the eyelid, but it wasn't repulsive. He opened his mouth to say so when Farfarello lifted the scarred eyelid and Aya choked on his words.

 

The entire eye was blood-red.

 

Aya moved forward without realizing it, staring into the eye, searching. He got close enough to feel Farf's breath on his cheek as he absently tilted the albino's head so that his eye was better lit. This close, he could just barely make out the myriad capillaries that filled the space where the white should be, and a very faint orange circle where the iris swam in red, as though trying to surface. “What caused this?” Aya asked softly.

 

“It's not important,” Farfarello replied shortly, moving away to put his patch on again, but Aya snatched his wrists, stopping him.

 

“It's amazing.”

 

Farf looked startled. “Amazing?”

 

Feeling entranced, Aya ran a finger across the top of the cheekbone just below the demon eye. “In a way, it's beautiful.”

 

He was distracted from his perusal of the new eye by the piercing stare of the eagle eye. Realizing he was so close to Farf that he could feel the heat from his skin, he tried to step back, but Farfarello grabbed his waist, dropping the towel he'd been using on his hair, holding Aya in place, still staring.

 

Aya's heart leapt into his throat. Breathing faster, he pressed gently forward until he was pressed lightly against Farfarello's nearly naked body, lifted his hands to slide around Farf's shoulders and twist into silky damp hair, never breaking eye-contact.

 

Before his hands touched flesh Farfarello asked, “Is this wise?”

 

Aya hesitated, and then the phone rang. He stepped back quickly, suddenly embarrassed, as though whoever was on the other end of the phone knew what was going on. If it was Schuldig, he just might.

 

Farfarello chuckled, his eyepatch already back in place. “Your keepers have left about thirty messages already, here and at Thibodeaux's; no doubt this is them again. You'll probably get teased about it a lot tomorrow.” He walked over to the phone, checking caller ID. “It's Yohji's phone.”

 

“I'll tell him we just got back?” Aya said, reaching for the receiver.

 

“As ye like.”

 

Aya picked up the phone. “We're back. I'm tired.”

 

“Well that's a nice greeting,” came Yohji's irate reply. “What the hell have you been doing all this time? You couldn't have called to let us know you were okay? We've been worried!”

 

Aya couldn't help grinning, even though he was exasperated. “Listen, dad,” he started, pushing on through Yohji's predictable yelp of outrage, “I've been working really hard and I didn't get a chance to call. That's likely to be the case a lot of the time. You and mom will just have to stop worrying so much.”

 

Schuldig yelled into the cell. Aya knew he'd been listening. “Mom?! How insulting! At least let me be your hot cousin or your funny uncle or something. I'm already Nagi's mom.”

 

“Ha, you probably have hot bastard babies all over the globe,” Yohji rejoined.

 

“Speak for yourself, you turbo man-slut!”

 

Aya felt Farfarello come up beside him. Before he could move, there was a hand cupping his chin, turning his head, and a warm mouth lightly covered his own.

 

He dropped the phone.

 

The hand against his chin trembled violently, as if it was taking all of Farfarello's power to restrain it, and he was turning away before Aya could even think about deepening the kiss.

 

“Good night, Aya,” Farf said as he stepped into his room. He paused, still facing away. “If the dogs bother ye, let them in here or out on the balcony.” He shut the door.

 

Aya was stock still for a few moments, heart thudding, running his tongue across his lips, wanting to crash through the goddamn door and make Farfarello continue what he started. That mouth…

 

Tinny voices reached Aya's ears through the blood roaring in them, and he looked down at the phone on the floor, dazed. He picked it up and held it to his ear, listening for a second as Yohji suggested to Schu that they drive over to Farf's to find out what had happened.

 

“Listen,” he started, and both of them yelled “Aya!!!!” After shushing them, he said, “I just fell asleep. Because I'm tired. Like I said. I'll call you tomorrow morning. I'm going to sleep now.” He hung up the phone as they both started to talk at once.

 

He stared at Farfarello's bedroom door for a long time, before sighing and walking over to the couch. He blushed as he remembered what had happened the last time he'd slept on this couch. Damned if he was going to do that again with the dogs in the room.

 

He wondered if he would get as hard thinking about Farfarello as he did remembering Botan.

 

His cock twitched.

 

Shoving all such thoughts aside, he stripped to his boxer briefs and snuggled into the couch, turned so he could watch the fire. Once he was comfortable, Romulus and Darius both stood up, stretched a little, and walked over to lie in front of the couch. He reached down and scratched Romulus' enormous head. He felt glad that they were there.

 

His last thought before finally falling asleep was that he hoped he didn't wake up and step on one of them in the dark.

 

 

A/N, part deux: The next few chapters will also be from Aya's POV. I know I've been nicely alternating from chapter to chapter, but in the interest of expediency, I'm not going to try and come up with filler chapters just to have something from Yohji's POV. Rest assured that in the second part, Yohji will have several chapters in a row from his POV. It's fair. Honest. Oh, and next chapter, the teasing will stop. Hopefully you know what I mean.