Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ The Sous-Chef ❯ Chapter 18

A/N: Whoa, I just got back from `Snakes on a Plane' and now I want to write campy WK/SoaP crossovers. Luckily for you, I finished up this chapter instead. Self-beta'd because my beta is still on vacation. I think.

 

 

Chapter 18

 

Aya woke up a little disoriented, trying to remember where he was and what day it was. The mission he'd completed the night before came back to him, and he vaguely recalled stumbling into Farf's apartment at around half past two. Farf hadn't even been home yet. Neither of them had slept since the morning before, when they had catnapped together on the couch in Farf's office for about an hour and a half before the brunch started.

 

Aya smiled. The brunch had been sort of fun, if only for how bizarre it was to watch the fuss made over Farfarello. Apparently Farf was very well-liked among the Carollos, and it was interesting to watch all the wives and daughters fawning over him, and the husbands and sons gripping him in tight, manly hugs. As Farf had predicted, a lot of requests were made for traditional Italian restaurant fare, but the staff was able to turn them down gracefully, for the most part. Aya still ended up helping Farf put together an enormous batch of sausage ravioli in spicy marinara around lunchtime, when most of the other food—to Aya's amazement—had been devoured. It was another couple of hours of listening to Farfarello cursing up a storm. Pasta, he'd told Aya, was not his forté.

 

Farf had also gotten numerous requests for sugar pieces, which made Aya fear for everyone's safety. He could almost hear the albino's teeth grinding as he patiently explained again and again that he didn't have time to take such commissions. No one seemed to mind his refusals—in fact, as the day wore on and case after case of champagne, red table wine and beer were consumed, a four-piece band arrived and chairs and tables were pushed back to make a dance floor, it was insisted that John Farlane must dance with the bride.

 

Aya didn't understand how, in a room full of mafiosos, no one seemed to recognize the homicidal glint in Farf's golden eye, as the new bride hung on his arm and drunkenly tugged at him until he—very reluctantly—followed her to the middle of the room. He danced far better than she did; it was like watching a platypus waltzing with a panther. The girl was pretty enough, and she wasn't clumsy beyond a slight drunk stagger, but she was nothing extraordinary. Not like the man she was dancing with.

 

When the floor started to fill up and the mother of the bride switched dancing partners with her daughter, Aya had to retreat to the kitchen, he was laughing so hard—Farf was practically wrestling with the woman, trying to keep her hands off his ass.

 

Not that Aya could blame her, having had his hands on that ass himself. It was a damn fine ass.

 

Aya's awareness was creeping up on him much more slowly than usual, riding the wave of his memories of the previous day. It came to his conscious attention that there was an arm wrapped around his middle, and the rise and fall of a chest against his back. He looked down at Farfarello's pale hand resting against his abdomen, on top of the blanket. He shifted to lie on his back, amused when the arm tightened around him as though to prevent him from leaving.

 

From the look of things, it appeared that on arriving home Farfarello had gone straight from the front door to the couch, though Aya didn't remember him coming in. Hopefully he'd known on some level who it was and therefore kept sleeping. That thought was far more pleasant than the notion that his assassin's reflexes were dulling.

 

Farf was still in his cook's whites, his hair was still in a braid and his boots were still on. He hadn't even gotten under the covers, and Aya could see goosebumps on his bicep.

 

Aya tried to slide out from under his arm, but Farfarello tightened it, waking up with a rushed inhalation. “Aya?” he asked, blinking. “Goin' sommere?”

 

“Hm? Let go, I'm going to take your boots off,” Aya murmured, leaning over and kissing Farf's pale lips gently. He slipped out from under the arm as Farf tried to adjust to hold him more firmly, making sure the dogs weren't underfoot before he stepped on the rug.

 

“Come back `ere,” Farf slurred. It worried Aya a little; Farf was usually so sharp and alert. He was obviously exhausted.

 

“Just a sec.” Aya unbuckled and unlaced the heavy black boots, tugging them off and the socks with them. Farf fell back asleep while he was doing that, but woke up as Aya began unbuttoning his white vest.

 

“'Ey…I want to play with ye, but I dunno if I can at the moment…”

 

“Moron. I'm just trying to make you more comfortable. You want me to help you to bed?” Aya asked, tugging the last button free.

 

“No, that's alright,” Farf said, sounding marginally more awake. He sat up and pulled off the vest, and reached down to undo his pants on his own. As Aya watched him slide his pants off and lay back down, naked except for a pair of rather small boxer-briefs, he began to wish Farfarello was up for some fun after all.

 

Pushing such thoughts aside, Aya yanked the covers over Farf and back over himself as well, and snuggled his back against that hard, marvelous chest. Farf hummed with pleasure and wrapped his arm back around Aya, taking one of his hands and lacing their fingers together.

 

“I'm going to have to leave in a little bit,” Aya said reluctantly, after a few moments.

 

Farf stirred behind him, squeezing his hand. “Why? Ye can stay here.”

 

“I'm wearing the same underwear I had on two days ago. I need to go home.” He paused, heard Farf make a sound like he was about to say something, and cut him off. “Don't tell me I can borrow some of yours, either.”

 

A pause. “It's not like I'd give ye anything unsanitary,” Farf muttered, sounding slightly put out.

 

Aya smiled. “It's not that. I just have a hard enough time keeping my dignity at that job, without walking around all day wearing the boss' underwear.”

 

“Oh, ye do not.” Farf tugged on him until Aya rolled over to face him, sliding both arms around the Irishman. “You've more dignity than you've any right to have, working in a place like that.” He leaned forward and placed a nibbling kiss on Aya's chin. “Would it make any difference if I gave ye boxers with little skulls all over them?”

 

Aya snorted. “No.”

 

“Little bloody axes?”

 

“Um…”

 

“Little decapitated heads?”

 

“You do not have boxers with decapitated heads on them.”

 

Farfarello grinned. “Realistic, too. You'd be surprised what ye can find around Hallowe'en. They're even silk.”

 

Aya stared at Farf, raising a brow. “I'll think about it. Maybe someday other than today. Today I have to go home before Yohji calls out the National Guard.”

 

“Ah, yes, your keepers.” Farf grinned wickedly, one hand skimming down Aya's back to dip teasingly under his waistband. “I have to admit, it's kind of fun making `em worry. I'll have to think of new and clever ways to distract ye, so ye don't even think about going home for days.” He kissed Aya's lips briefly, began tracing his cleft with an index finger. “Weeks,” he added, kissing across Aya's jawline, pushing Aya's underwear off his hips. “Months,” he whispered into Aya's ear, as Aya yanked Farfarello's tight shorts down with eager fingers. “Years,” Farf murmured into Aya's neck as he closed a fist around Aya's slickening cock, and Aya shouted and wrapped a leg around Farf's hips.

 

“Kiss me,” Aya panted.

 

“My pleasure,” Farf purred, and set to devouring him.

 

******

 

“Ayyyyyaaaaaannnn!” Yohji howled as Aya got out of his car, the blond barreling out of the front door, running to the driveway to sweep him into an enormous hug. “I missed you! You can't possibly have been working all this time, can you?”

 

Aya was more than happy to lean on Yohji, since he was pretty certain that if he was left to his own devices, he would simply collapse on the front lawn. “Unfortunately. I got a little sleep, but I need more.”

 

Yohji held Aya's hair back from his face, sparkling green eyes boring into his. He squirmed under the potent scrutiny. “You're so exhausted, Aya. Do you even know when you're getting a day off?”

 

“Off?” Aya mumbled. The thought of having a day off seemed completely out of the question, considering how things at the restaurant were progressing. Until the saucier came back, time off was unlikely. He shook his head, yawning until his jaw cracked.

 

“Aya…C'mon, hop up. I'll bring you to your room.” Yohji turned around and bent his legs a little, so Aya could climb on his back.

 

Aya considered protesting the indignity of being toted around, but his fatigue smacked his pride right out of the way. He wrapped his arms around Yohji's neck, and lifted his legs to wrap around his waist. “Shower,” he mumbled. “Unclean.”

 

“Oh? Want me to shower with you?” Aya couldn't see Yohji's face but he could hear the leer.

 

Aya felt vaguely horrified at the prospect, considering how sore and tired he was, and how he'd just gone two rounds—quick but sumptuous—with Farfarello that neither of them had had the energy for, but hadn't been able to resist. Farf had actually passed out at the end of the second bout, giving Aya leeway to make his escape. “No more sex. Please, no more. I can't take it…” he mumbled, without really thinking about what he was saying.

 

Yohji froze instantly, and then suddenly Aya's feet were on the ground and Yohji was in front of him, while Aya tried to keep his footing with the help of the hallway wall. “What? You've been screwing someone from work?” Aya nodded. Yohji looked uncertain. “Was it a one-time thing, or someone you really like?”

 

Aya felt a little uncomfortable answering that, considering who was asking and who they were talking about. He dropped his eyes. “Where's Schu?”

 

“He's shopping. Answer me, huh, Aya?” Yohji put a gentle hand under his chin to tilt it up, forcing Aya to look him in the face.

 

Well, there was no getting around this now. Little as he wanted to have this conversation, he'd known it was coming. “I…like him,” Aya almost whispered.

 

Yohji's face broke out in his most cheerful, sunshine smile. “Aya! That's wonderful! I'm so glad!” Yohji hugged him hard. Aya hugged back, wishing he could be certain Yohji would still be this happy when he told him who it was. “'Him', huh,” the blond said, pulling back a little, still grinning. “Guess it's not that pervert pastry girl, then. Too bad; she's pretty cool. If it'd been her I would've definitely wanted a foursome. Of course,” he drawled, raising a brow, “that's not to say we couldn't have one with this new beau, if you want.”

 

The thought of a foursome with Yohji, Schu and Farfarello struck Aya as infinitely unlikely…though pretty fucking hot, actually. Maybe…Aya shook his head a little. “Probably not.”

 

“So, who is it? I'm dying here! Have I met this guy?” Yohji, showing consideration for Aya's exhaustion, had started leading him down the hall to his and Schu's room—Aya guessed Yohji was going to help him shower regardless. Which was okay, since Aya would probably just curl up under the water and go to sleep if he was alone.

 

Trying to focus a little on Yohji's questioning, Aya said, “Yes. You've met.”

 

“Hmmm…is it that cute little guy with the do-rag and the pants that are fourteen sizes too big?”

 

Aya snorted. “Esteban? No.”

 

“That huge grill guy?”

 

“Hehe. No.”

 

Yohji had maneuvered him to lean against the wall in the bathroom, and was in the process of unbuttoning Aya's chef's jacket. He frowned. “It's not that skinny ugly guy, is it?”

 

“No, not Louis.”

 

“I can't think of anyone else from the restaurant that I've really met, though.”

 

Sighing heavily, Aya said, “Yes, you can.”

 

Yohji's movements slowed to a stop, his hands dropping to his sides. “You didn't fuck Farfarello,” he stated, voice inflectionless.

 

Aya crossed his arms. “I did.”

 

Yohji gasped through clenched teeth, not looking at Aya. “You still have a death wish? Are you planning on going through psychos until one of them succeeds in killing you?”

 

The reminder of what he'd gone through with Ken was unwelcome, but he supposed he could understand why Yohji was thinking that way. He gritted his teeth. “No. It's not the same.”

 

“Of course it's not the same. It's a hundred fucking times worse! He's more insane than Ken could ever be. He killed his whole fucking family when he was just a kid, and went downhill from there, damn it!” Yohji was getting good and angry now. Aya wondered if there was any way he could get Yohji to postpone the argument until after he'd had a nap. He really wasn't up for this.

 

“I know he's crazy. He's a lot of other things, too,” Aya said, words coming up his throat slowly, as though they were made of syrup. “Some of them are very good things. I like him, Yohji.”

 

Yohji fisted his hands in his blond tresses, his eyes sparking with frustration. He took a very deep breath; Aya could almost hear him counting to ten in his head. “Ayan,” he began, his tone setting Aya on edge, “when we decided to take you with us, I told you that we were going to be making some decisions for you, didn't I? Because you haven't been acting in your own best interest. You agreed to that.”

 

Aya's eyes narrowed. All thoughts of sleep and showering vanished. “Provided you were making reasonable decisions.”

 

“It really isn't up to you whether the decisions are reasonable or not, because as I just said, you don't act in your own best interest. We didn't take you with us so you could make the same goddamn mistakes over again.” His eyes were intense, his voice soft but brooking no argument.

 

Aya felt a slow burn of anger crawling over his skin, setting his pores aflame. “What is it that you're proposing, Yohji?”

 

“This job is not good for you. It's keeping you occupied, but the price is too high. You're exhausted all the time and you're obviously not thinking straight—“

 

“Yohji.” The word was like a shard of ice in the air, even as Aya felt like every cell in his body was about to ignite.

 

Yohji paused, staring at him defiantly, with a raised eyebrow.

 

“Are you prepared to incarcerate me?”

 

“Incarcerate…?”

 

“Because that's what it will take to get me to quit this job and stop associating with Farfarello. Yohji,” Aya's voice rose sharply as the blond's eyes narrowed and he opened his mouth to speak, “I understand why you're concerned. If you don't trust my judgment at all, then go ahead and have me committed, or whatever you're going to do. Otherwise, leave me the hell alone.”

 

Yohji's hands fisted at his sides. He looked just about as pissed off as Aya had ever seen him. Aya readied himself for what would likely become a loud, bitter argument that he very much didn't want to have.

 

“Yohji, may I speak to you for a moment?”

 

Both heads whipped to the doorway, where Schuldig was leaning against the frame, giving Yohji a sour look.

 

“If you're going to try and tell me that this is okay—“ Yohji started, tone dangerous.

 

“Just come out here and talk to me. Let Aya shower. He's exhausted.” He turned and walked away.

 

Yohji hesitated, looking like he was about ready to explode. He turned to Aya, finger pointing at him from the end of a rigid arm. “We're not through yet,” he promised, and stormed from the bathroom, slamming the door so hard the hinges rattled.

 

Aya's anger faded with Yohji's departure, to be replaced by the nothingness he had cultivated after his sister's departure. He wondered if he should call and tell her not to come, now, since he would probably be sent back to Japan to the Kritiker-run psychiatric facility. She could visit him there. Maybe they'd give him a cell in the same wing as Ken, and Ken would start eating again.

 

Tears threatened, though he wasn't feeling anything in particular, and he held them back as well as he could. He stepped into the shower, turned on the jets and began his usual methodical scrub-down on automatic pilot. His chest hurt terribly. He would probably never see anyone from the restaurant again. He wondered what Farfarello would tell everyone about him. Probably that he was a--

 

Farfarello's voice abruptly flashed through his brain, a phantom hand clapping over his mouth. Stop whining.

 

Aya froze, shocked to his core.

 

No. No! He wasn't some weak little boy who surrendered everything important to him because someone didn't agree with his decisions. Why was he thinking like his whole life here was already over? He hadn't even begun to resist the idea!

 

He heard yelling through the walls, but was unable to make out any words. Of course there was yelling; Schuldig would be on his side. Schu was Farf's closest friend, knew him better than anyone. It wasn't as though Aya was alone, or facing an unstoppable force. Hell, Aya had been known to be an unstoppable force. There was no reason for him to get upset, and no reason for him to feel like anything was over. And Yohji was his friend. Though he was being particularly reactionary in this case, he did have good reason, and whatever he might say, Aya knew Yohji wouldn't act rashly on a decision of this magnitude. Yohji was no pushover, but he had an extremely generous heart. Aya and Schu could get through to him eventually.

 

Farfarello's terrible angelic smile shone in his mind's eye. Aya bared his teeth in his own feral grin. There was no way he was leaving, not now.

 

Feeling much better, he finished cleaning up and drying off, and exited the bathroom. Schuldig was lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling. ::Come lay down, Feurig,:: he sent, patting the bed beside him.

 

::Where's Yohji?:: Aya asked, laying down next to the German, hoping the towel around his waist wasn't terribly wet.

 

::He went for a drive. He's still not at all pleased with the situation. I don't know how long it will take for him to accept it, if he ever will.::

 

“Why wouldn't he?” Aya asked, throwing a puzzled look at Schuldig. “Farf's not the same psycho he was when we were in Weiß.”

 

Schuldig sighed, and leaned over to his nightstand. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes, a lighter and an ashtray, set the ashtray on the headboard and lit two cigarettes, passing one to Aya. It had been a while since Aya had smoked, but he found himself grateful for the nicotine rush. He wondered if Schu was going to answer him.

 

“Farf isn't the same psycho he used to be, that's true,” Schu finally said, exhaling slowly. “But he is still pretty goddamn nuts. That's the big problem. I can't say to Yohji, it's okay for Aya to be involved with Farfarello because Farfie is a happy fluffy citizen of the planet Earth now.”

 

Aya swallowed somewhat noisily, smoke trailing from his nose. “Is he still…hunting clergy?”

 

Schuldig glanced sidelong at him. “What do you think, Aya? Honestly.”

 

“I think that he does. I think he still kills…recreationally,” Aya finished, remembering their discussion on the skyscraper. “And obsessively.” Aya's brows drew together. “Just the sort of person I'd be assassinating if I still believed in righteous murder.”

 

“Farfarello still believes in righteous murder. In fact, he believes it more firmly and thoroughly than any of you in Weiß ever did. More than anyone I can think of, really. He never does things for no reason, Aya. Even if the reasons are totally screwed up, they're there, and if you know Farf you can figure them out. As different as he might seem nowadays, his personality and way of thinking are essentially unchanged, and will likely remain unchanged—provided he's left to his own devices—for the rest of his life. You can use this to your advantage, Aya, to manipulate him into acting the way you'd prefer, if you want to be with him but you have reservations about all the blood he spills.”

 

“I don't like operating that way,” Aya said automatically. He had no right to judge Farfarello, at any rate, since he was working for the man in several capacities. Including killing for him.

 

Schuldig finished his cigarette, crushed it in the ashtray and shrugged, lying back down. “It's just something to keep in mind. How serious is this thing with Farfie, anyway?”

 

Aya crushed out his own cigarette and stared up at the ceiling. “It isn't very serious.” Yet, he almost added. Schuldig smirked, and Aya wondered if he'd projected it. “It could be over already the next time I see him. I have no idea.” Though he sorely hoped that wouldn't be the case. “It's not anything I was expecting.”

 

Schuldig snickered, picking up his cell phone and dialing. “It won't be over next time you see him,” he said, pushing a few more numbers and handing the phone to Aya.

 

“What's this?”

 

“My voice mail. It's why I came back home even though I had only gotten about half the stuff on the list.”

 

Aya held the phone to his ear, to hear a message from Farfarello that was already underway. “—if ye could. Aya and I've started screwing, and I want to keep it going as long as I can. Do what ye can to keep your man from getting on his back so much that he feels like it isn't worth it to continue with me, okay?” A click as the message ended, and Aya pressed the `end call' button. He had the feeling there was a goofy smile on his face.

 

“He likes you,” Schuldig commented, his voice uncharacteristically serious, as he took back his phone. “That kind of consideration from the Farf, even if it's not altruistic, is exceedingly rare. So I will help you as much as I can, but I'm not jeopardizing my own relationship for yours.”

 

“I wouldn't expect you to,” Aya responded, snuggling up to Schuldig's side and draping an arm over him. He sighed. “Yohji's not wrong to be upset, but...” ::I don't want him to force me to push him away, Schuldig. Or you, either.:: He felt slightly embarrassed, too ashamed to admit openly that he relied on them.

 

::Don't worry about that. I won't let things get nasty between any of the three of us. Go to sleep, Feurig.:: There was a slight pause. “Oh, fuck, wait,” Schuldig blurted. “I'd better tell you before I forget. Again.”

 

“What?” Aya asked, eyes more than half-closed.

 

“Takatori needs Nagi for a job that's going down in Japan. Aya-chan's visit is going to be delayed for a couple of weeks at least.”

 

Aya chastised himself for the thread of relief that spun through his heart. “Why so long?”

 

Schuldig shrugged. “Dunno. I didn't ask. You're not upset?”

 

“Not really. I want to see her,” he said hastily, “but…I don't know. I need more time to get used to the idea that she's actually coming here. It's bound to be awfully emotional, and I'm…very tired.”

 

Schuldig's hand was stroking rhythmically through his hair. “Yes, you are. Go to sleep, baby.”

 

“'M not a baby. You don't have to stay with me.”

 

“I'd rather not leave, if it's all the same to you,” Schu murmured, kissing his forehead.

 

Aya felt a smile flit across his face, and he tightened his arm around the other redhead. Even though worry about Yohji still nagged at his brain, he fell asleep quickly.

 

******

 

When he got to Thibodeaux's, Farfarello was having a discussion with the sausage makers, Eric and JL, in the road between the restaurant and the affectionately-named `sausage shanty.' Well, from Farfarello's side it looked like a discussion, he amended. On Eric and JL's side, it looked like a blazing row. As Aya approached the restaurant's back door, Eric threw up his hands and stormed back to the shanty, slamming the door, as JL started laying into Farf in what Aya could only guess was French, though he wasn't terribly familiar with the language. He paused, fascinated. In the time he'd been at the restaurant, he'd only caught sight of JL a few times, and had never spoken to the man. The elder European was very powerfully built, and as he raged his arms were constantly in motion, appearing as though they would pulverize anything they might happen to brush against. He couldn't imagine a normal person not being terrified at the spectacle.

 

Farfarello, of course, was no normal person. His arms were folded, his French—which Aya could actually recognize as French—soft and lilting, no trace of anger or irritation on his face. He said something that made JL pause, and then turn around and stalk back to the shanty without another word.

 

Farf shook his head, sighing audibly, and turned around, spotting Aya instantly and smiling at him. “Let me know if JL gives ye a hard time about anything. He's got a bad habit of taking out his frustrations on the undeserving,” he said as he approached.

 

“What was that all about?” Aya asked, leaning against the wall by the back door.

 

Farf sighed again, actually looking a little put-upon. “It's nothing ye need to worry about. Just Carollo making unreasonable demands, and me having to do the actual demanding. He's really been a pain in the arse lately.” He grinned at Aya. “Maybe I'll have ye do him in for me, eh?”

 

“Wouldn't you rather do it yourself?”

 

Chuckling, Farf joined him against the wall. “That I would. But I'm fond of your style with the kukri.”

 

Aya raised a brow. “How do you even know what it's like? You've never seen me use it.”

 

“That I haven't, but the clean-up crew always sends me photos so that I can make out exactly what's gone on. It wouldn't do for my assassins to make mistakes I don't know about. I'd love to see ye in action again,” he said, his voice wistful. “It's beautiful how even after five years, ye still don't falter for even a second.”

 

“Well, it hasn't actually been five years,” Aya admitted. “After Aya-chan left, I took on some solo jobs for Kritiker.”

 

Farf looked at him in surprise, then looked away as his eye narrowed. “I didn't know that,” he muttered, and then cryptically added, “Someone dropped the ball, there.”

 

“Eh?” Aya asked, puzzled.

 

Farf shook his head. “It's not important. At any rate, I'm still determined to witness ye in action someday soon. But for now, we should—“

 

“Farfarello,” Aya interrupted him, softly enough that no one would overhear even if they had their ear pressed to the back door with a glass. He turned an intent gaze onto Farf's eagle eye. “I want you to start telling me what the hell I'm killing these people for. I may not believe I'm the sword of justice anymore, but I don't like being in the dark like this. And I want to know who you answer to. I don't want to go on like this. I can't.”

 

“Aya…” Farf slipped a hand behind Aya's back and guided him several feet away from the door. He stepped back, regarding Aya intensely. “Ye know, I think, that it was never my intention to keep ye on long. Either here at the restaurant, or as an assassin.”

 

“Is that still the case?” Aya asked, chest tightening.

 

Farf stepped closer to him, pressing his scarred nose briefly to the side of Aya's, pulling back to look in his eyes again. “It isn't. It isn't, but I…” He sighed, and scrubbed a hand along his own cheek in an uncharacteristic gesture of nervous frustration. “I can't tell ye everything just yet. There are reasons for it. Can ye trust in me for a few more weeks? I promise, as soon as I can I will tell ye everything ye want to know.”

 

Aya's eyes widened. “Really?”

 

“I don't make promises I don't intend to keep.” He slid an arm around Aya's neck, pulling him into a soft kiss.

 

Heat spread through Aya's belly, and he pulled back. “Um, Farf…I don't necessarily want everyone knowing that we…”

 

“I know, I know,” Farf relented, stepping away with a sigh. “So is it alright for now?”

 

“I guess I can wait a little longer, if you're promising to tell me.”

 

“Good.” Farf turned and led him back into the restaurant, stealing another kiss as he opened the back door.

 

Aya growled at him, and Farf laughed softly.

 

However, all trace of mirth vanished from the Irishman's face as they entered the kitchen. The atmosphere was tense, although everyone seemed to be going about their business. There was an enormous, bright red box of Lucky Charms cereal standing like a beacon on one of the prep tables.

 

“Does someone want to get their breakfast off the table?” Farf's voice was deadly calm, and what little chatter and activity there was ceased immediately. Aya was confused.

 

No one seemed to want to answer him, but finally Shelly spoke up from where she was shoveling bread out of the large brick oven. “Carollo left it there. He said that since his family made you make Italian food yesterday, you...um…might appreciate some Irish food,” she finished with a nervous crack in her voice.

 

“Irish food,” Farf repeated, disbelief evident in his voice.

 

Aya decided Carollo was either a complete moron, an overconfident idiot or a man who craved death.

 

“Is he still here?” The eagle eye focused on Shelly, and she paled.

 

“No,” she squeaked.

 

Aya narrowed his eyes at his boss. There was no need to frighten Shelly half to death over something she had nothing to do with.

 

The tension built to a snapping point, but then Farfarello sighed. “Too bad,” he said, “it would be interesting to see how long it would take to cram this box up his fat Italian ass.”

 

There was relieved tittering all around, as Farf stalked forward and picked up the box. Aya made his way to his mis-en-place, watching Farf tear the box open from the corner of his eye. The madman pulled out two bags of cereal and regarded them thoughtfully.

 

The entire kitchen paused in what they were doing, waiting for some sort of explosion.

 

Farfarello emptied the two bags of cereal into a large bowl, and started mixing milk, eggs and flour, a couple of spices and various other ingredients in another bowl, eventually adding the contents to the cereal bowl. Everyone seemed to have dropped the pretense of doing anything other than watching him make—whatever the hell he was making.

 

Farf carried the mixture over to the fry-o-later, and started tossing balls of the stuff into the hot grease. Everyone watched in silence as the head chef laid out batches of deep-fried, very strangely-colored cereal balls on layers of paper towels to cool, sifting confectioner's sugar over them. When he'd taken the last batch out, he tossed the dirty bowls over to the dishwashers' sink, rinsed his hands and turned to his crew. “Well? We don't waste food in this establishment,” he said, smirking a little. “Eat up. They're magically fucking delicious.” Sticking his hands in his pockets, he headed for his office, whistling.

 

The staff exchanged nervous glances, and Louis finally stepped forward and grabbed one of the cooling balls, crunching into it. He looked very surprised.

 

“Well?” Jarrod prompted.

 

“It's pretty sweet and kinda greasy, but it's…really good,” he admitted. “He's such a weird son of a bitch.”

 

There was a general murmur of agreement with that, even as everyone advanced on the table and started devouring the cereal balls.

 

Though the consensus seemed to be that deep-fried Lucky Charms was something very agreeable to eat, the thought of consuming one of those…things made Aya more than a little nauseous, so he declined when the confection was pressed on him.

 

“I promise I'll still want you just as much if you get fat,” Louis declared, waving one of the slightly cinnamon-scented balls in front of his face in what he presumably thought was a tempting manner.

 

Before Aya could come up with a scathing remark, Shelly breezed by, grabbing the cereal out of Louis' hand. “Give it a rest, pajiera. Ran's not gonna eat your balls.”

 

Aya surprised himself, as well as his co-workers, by laughing until tears streamed down his cheeks.

 

******

 

“Ran,” Farf called, as Aya was about to get into his car to head home.

 

He turned to the advancing Irishman, waving to Louis and Jarrod as they drove by in Jarrod's pick-up. “Yes?”

 

Farfarello leaned on the car beside him. “I talked to Schuldig earlier. Ye mentioned what's been going on between us to Yohji, yes?” he asked.

 

Aya sighed inwardly. He'd been trying—unsuccessfully—not to worry about that all day, at least until he got home again. “Yeah.”

 

Farf nodded. “I knew that ye would. Is he giving ye shit?”

 

“He's understandably concerned.”

 

There was silence for several seconds, and Aya regarded Farf with a sidelong glance. Farf's lips were compressed to a thin white line, and Aya was on the wrong side to see his eye. “Do ye want to…” Farf's fists, folded across his chest, clenched and unclenched. “I think we should hold off on this for a while, until the three of ye can come to some sort of peace. I know he means a lot to ye.”

 

Aya was floored. “Huh?” was all he could think to say.

 

“I'm not saying this because I want to. I know I've piled an awful lot on ye, lately—“

 

“Not nearly as much as you pile on yourself,” Aya interjected.

 

“—and I don't want ye to feel that I make your life so difficult that ye don't want any more to do with me.” He straightened up, dropping his hands to his sides. “So we'll hold off for a while.” He started to walk away.

 

Aya grabbed Farf's arm and yanked him around. “Do I get any say in this?” he bit out angrily. He felt like his lungs were full of little needles. “I can handle Yohji. There's no need for us to hold off on anything!”

 

“Aya.” Farf inhaled deeply, took Aya's hand from his arm and squeezed it. “It's not just that, to be perfectly honest. This thing between us, it's a lot more…intense than I expected. Not that I was even expecting it, really. I need to step back a bit and consider how this fits into everything.”

 

Aya's eyes were wide. The little needles were spreading from his chest all over his body. He yanked his hand out of Farfarello's grip. “You're blowing me off, now?”

 

Farf gasped sharply. “No!” He latched on to Aya's arms. “No, not at all! Look, I'm not explaining this well. I don't have any intention of ending things with ye. But I need to have a clearer head about this. I have to think of this more objectively. If I don't, it puts both of us in danger.”

 

“I don't understand,” Aya said, feeling helpless and hurt.

 

“I know. I can't explain it better right now.”

 

“I'm not willing to be someone you just fuck at your own convenience.”

 

“Aya…” Farfarello hugged him hard, trapping Aya's arms at his sides, burying his face in Aya's neck. “I'm sorry,” he said, voice a little muffled. “That's not what I mean.” He lifted his head, the eagle eye penetrating. “I've started drowning in ye, and I can't afford to do that right now. Not just for my own sake. Please, try to understand at least that much. And I want Yohji to be alright with me being your lover. I don't want to be thinking about that when I'm with ye.”

 

Aya just stared, unable to think of what to say. He had told Schuldig that morning that what was between himself and Farf wasn't serious, and it shouldn't have been, considering it had only started less than two full days ago, and he'd been close to Farf for only a couple of weeks. The pain he was feeling, however, was completely disproportionate to such a casual assessment.

 

Farfarello's imploring eye softened. “Alright, Aya,” he said, stroking Aya's cheek gently. “Forget we had this conversation. I can see in your eyes that I'm hurting ye. That's unacceptable.”

 

“No,” Aya sighed, leaning into Farf's touch. “You're right. You're not the only one that needs to step back a little. This is happening so fast. I don't even know what it is.”

 

Farf held Aya's chin steady, searching Aya's face. Aya smiled faintly. Farf leaned forward and brushed a kiss on his brow. “You'll be fine. You're very strong.” He covered Aya's mouth with his own before Aya could voice the automatic denial.

 

Aya wrapped his arms around Farf's waist and kissed him back hard, with something akin to desperation.

 

After a while Farfarello pulled away gently. “See you tomorrow,” he whispered, and then Aya was staring into the darkness, hearing soft footfalls crunching away from him in the gravel and shells.

 

Numbly, Aya climbed into his car and sat there, staring at the wheel. It was a while before he could focus enough to drive away.

 

******

 

It had not been a good week.

 

For one thing, Yohji was barely speaking to either him or Schuldig. When Aya got home from work each night, it was generally to find Yohji sleeping on the couch, and Schuldig alone in his room. Schu had told Aya it was alright for him to sleep in his and Yohji's room with him, but without Yohji there it seemed wrong. So he had been sleeping in his own room, feeling rather bereft.

 

He'd also avoided sleeping at Farfarello's, even when it would've made sense to do so for convenience's sake. The distance between them only seemed physical, for which Aya was grateful. Farf still instructed him, talked to him, teased him and bantered with him quite as much as usual, even taking him out to lunch a few times, and often sending him quiet smiles that conveyed an affection that filled Aya's heart. But it hurt more and more, not touching him, not holding or being held by him. He didn't feel like he'd gained breathing room; he felt stifled. But Farfarello seemed content, so he said nothing.

 

He even missed the quiet, comforting presence of Romulus and Darius, whom he had made much of when he had gone to Farf's earlier to don his mission gear and go over the mission plan on the laptop. He decided he should think about getting a pet of his own.

 

But that was a consideration for later, he thought firmly as his car approached the back of the old office building where his prey was unknowingly awaiting him. He slipped easily into the zone, relishing the almost physical chill of his mission mode. His mind focused and crystal clear, he parked in an alleyway a few buildings over, checked that his weapons were where they were supposed to be, went over the mission specs in his head one more time, and got silently out of his vehicle.

 

He made less noise than a shadow falling, as he stalked through the darkness to his destination.

 

There were four goons visible at the side doorway which he was to enter through, better-trained than average, alert and focused, hands on the butts of their guns. The area was well-lit, which served to better conceal another four goons tucked in the shadows. Aya released crimson spouts from all eight of them, without one of them managing to sound an alarm to any of the others.

 

As he entered the dim building, something very odd caught his eye.

 

He approached the wall. There was indeed, as his eyes had first told him, a rose hanging out of the wall at a slightly downward angle. He touched it. It seemed perfectly ordinary. He pulled at it, but it was somehow embedded in the lathe behind the plaster. Aya had no idea how such a thing could happen.

 

He dismissed it for the moment. It had no bearing on his mission.

 

He crawled through ducts and up back stairwells, efficiently disposing of anyone in his way. There was only one hairy moment, just outside of his target's office, when he heard a goon across the corridor preparing to fire on him while his kukri was still making its way through a victim's abdomen. Letting go of his knife, he ducked as the gun fired, whipping out his Beretta and nailing the man between the eyes. The gunfire would attract some of the other goons, silencers or no, so he had to get moving. He wrenched the kukri free, and dove through the door to his target's room.

 

There was more gunfire as the target and two of his associates fired at Aya. There was no concealment in shadow; all the lights in the room were on and the only furniture in the room was the desk at which the target sat and some built-in bookshelves along the walls. Aya's gun was out again in a flash, taking down the associates as the target ducked behind the desk. Kukri in one hand and gun in the other, Aya leapt on top of the desk. He noticed the target before the target noticed him, and his blade whipped out, taking off the hand that held the target's gun. The target scrambled back, screaming, as Aya swooped on him.

 

“No!” cried a voice from the doorway, and Aya ducked a projectile he sensed hurtling toward his neck, as his knife-hand flew out to rid the target of his troublesome head. His other hand fired the Beretta at the doorway, but whoever had been there had melted back into the shadows.

 

Aya's eyes darted to the wall to find the projectile that had been thrown at him, and narrowed. There was another rose embedded in the wall.

 

All senses alert, Aya crept silently out of the well-lit room, into the shadowy hallway. There was silence; he couldn't sense anyone near.

 

He had to dive quickly around a corner as a sudden hail of projectiles—more of those weird roses, he assumed—abruptly flew at him from out of nowhere.

 

“Damn you,” a voice followed him. “I needed information from him. You could have waited a few minutes for his head, couldn't you? How rude.” The voice was cultured, with a proper British accent, as well as a touch of…Austrian? Aya wasn't quite sure. He backed into an office as another volley of roses rained on him, and was surprised to see a net of thorny vines spring up across the doorway. Obviously this man had abilities that were out of the ordinary, just like…

 

Esszet, he realized with a shock. Fuck. The man had likely seen him, too. Aya's braid was tucked inside his coat, and he was wearing a stocking cap, so he might not have been identified yet. His pursuer had to be killed as soon as possible. He might have communicated with an Esszet telepath already.

 

A vine was curling toward the lightswitch, threatening to turn it on. Aya's knife flew out and chopped it apart. It made a sound like he'd cut through an iron rod.

 

“Oh? Not just anyone can cut my vines so easily. Who are you?”

 

Aya was silent, waiting. With all senses alert, he was able to discern the almost inaudible approach of his attacker.

 

When the man was right where he wanted him, Aya whipped his knife through the vines and sprang, knocking the strange man to the floor. The man had surprising strength and skill, and managed to not only deflect his attack, but sent a vine whipping toward his head, thorns snagging in the cap and yanking it off. As Aya sprang to his feet, the lights in the hallway came on, making Aya blink even as he deflected an incoming rose with his knife.

 

The stranger took one look at him, and his jaw dropped. “Weiß? Here? What in god's name is going on?”

 

Shit, shit, shit. Aya lunged at the man, who he could now see was a handsome blond. He didn't look the slightest bit familiar.

 

“Wait!” the man cried, spinning away from his attack, sending vine tendrils at Aya's extremities. “You're Fujimiya Aya, right? There's no—wait, damn it!” His voice was exasperated as he danced nimbly away from another of Aya's strikes.

 

Aya was in no mood to listen to an Esszet agent trying to barter for his life. This man knew who he was now, and that meant even if he wasn't Esszet he still had to die.

 

“There's no need for us to fight!” the blond was yelling, trying vainly to trap Aya's limbs with his vines. “We're on the same side!”

 

Suuure, Aya thought grimly, firing his Beretta.

 

He was taken slightly by surprise as a phone came hurtling toward him. He caught it with his gun hand. “Kritiker HQ is on speed-dial on that phone. Call Takatori Mamoru. Tell him you're going to kill Chloé. If he gives you the go-ahead, I won't fight you. I swear.”

 

He dashed forward again, backing “Chloé” against the wall, his kukri just barely breaking the skin of his pale golden throat, not even enough to draw blood. The blond's hands were up, palms outward, and blue eyes focused dead on to his own violets.

 

Aya had meant to take the man's head off, but something in Chloé's gaze made him hesitate. Cursing himself for being twelve kinds of fool, he opened the phone and scanned through the memorized numbers one-handed, never taking his knife or his attention from the blond. For his part, the blond stayed impressively still.

 

Aya recognized the number for Kritiker HQ and dialed it, his eyes back on Chloé. Mamoru's secretary Rex answered, and Aya identified himself with a code and asked to speak to the Kritiker head.

 

Mamoru picked up his extension after a moment. “Chloé. What the hell are you trying to pull, identifying yourself as Fujimiya Aya? How did you get that code?” he asked sternly.

 

“Who is Chloé?” Aya asked, his voice cold, his eyes slitted, boring into the man under his knife.

 

There was a shocked pause. “Aya? How the hell are you calling from Chloé's mobile?”

 

“Answer me. He's on the wrong side of my knife as we speak, claiming we're on the same side.”

 

“Don't kill him!” Mamoru yelled, sounding almost panicked. “He works for a group that Kritiker is affiliated with. If it's discovered that you killed him, even if you're not technically an agent of ours anymore, it'll be an international incident. Don't—“

 

“Describe him to me.”

 

“Blond hair. Blue eyes. About 180cm tall. Born in Romania, living in England. Has an affinity with roses which he can manifest as a weapon, like an Esszet ability. Is that enough?”

 

Aya lowered his knife. “Yes. Thanks.”

 

“Let me speak to him, Aya.”

 

Aya ended the call and turned the phone off, slipping it into his own pocket. “You're cleared for now, but I want answers.”

 

“I'll be more than happy to give them to you, and afterward perhaps you'll give me a few of my own,” Chloé responded, looking relieved that the kukri had been removed from his person. “At the moment, though, I rather feel that I need a drink. I have some excellent cognac in my room at the hotel, if you'd care to join me.”

 

Aya raised an eyebrow at him.

 

Chloé gestured to the pocket where Aya had slipped his phone. “Call whoever you like; I'll tell you exactly where we're going and which room. But we need to get out of here. I've taken care of the thugs on the floors above and below us, to ensure privacy during my questioning, but someone's bound to come along soon.”

 

Aya scooped up his cap and put it back over his vivid hair. “Agreed.”

 

As they made their way out of the building quietly and without incident, Aya constantly keeping Chloé in his direct line of sight, he wondered if he should call someone, and if so, who he should call. Farfarello? It seemed the most likely choice, but…shit. He needed to know more about what was going on. Why the hell was a Kritiker-affiliated assassin from England here in New Orleans, trying to get information from a mid-level wiseguy? It didn't make any sense.

 

Chloé was heading off toward a main street. Aya called after him. “Wait. I need to dump some gear in my car. It's not far from here.”

 

“Ah! Of course. Though I doubt anyone would notice any blood. It's a wonder you're not covered in gore, considering your choice of weapon, really. What happened to the katana, if you don't mind me asking?” The blond sounded almost cheerful, no trace of nerves or fear in his voice.

 

“Wait until we're inside, Chloé.”

 

“Ah. Indeed.”

 

The blond was silent as they walked the rest of the way to Aya's car, waiting patiently as Aya stripped off his hat, coat, gloves and boots, depositing them in the trunk and changing his footwear to some unassuming black sneakers. He cleaned and sheathed his kukri again, dropping it in the trunk as well. He kept his Beretta holstered, concealing it under a short black leather jacket, and kept his boot knife strapped to his leg under his jeans. Checking himself in a lighted mirror on the underside of the trunk's hood, he gave a tiny grunt of satisfaction and locked up the car. “This hotel,” he said, catching the blond's eye. “It's within walking distance?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Good.”

 

Twenty minutes later, they were in the lobby of a rather posh hotel, heading for the elevator. Chloé was pretty openly staring at Aya, making him uncomfortable. “What?” he barked as the elevator doors closed.

 

“I'm sorry?”

 

“You're staring at me,” Aya clarified.

 

“I do beg your pardon,” Chloé said. “I suppose I have been.”

 

“Knock it off. It's getting on my nerves.”

 

“I'll try. It will be difficult,” the blond murmured. He didn't appear to be trying not to stare. In fact, he was staring harder than ever.

 

Aya was about to snap at him when the elevator doors opened. There seemed to be an inordinate amount of people in the hallway loitering about, chatting, so Aya just stalked down the corridor after Chloé. At least with the man in front of him, he was out from under those searching blue eyes.

 

As soon as Chloé's room door closed behind them, the eyes were back on him. Aya sighed in exasperation. “You're not trying not to stare.”

 

“No, I'm not,” Chloé said softly. “I've seen pictures of you, you know. Profile pictures, mission surveillance tapes and the like, for you and other Kritiker team members.”

 

“Obviously,” Aya snapped, irritable. “How else would you know who I was the minute you saw me?”

 

“Ever since I first saw a picture of you, I've wanted to meet you,” the blond continued as though he hadn't spoken. “I knew you would be absolutely beautiful, and I adore beautiful things. But…I don't think anything could possibly have prepared me for your presence. Pretty as photos of you are, they pale in comparison.”

 

Aya stomped over to a chair and sat down heavily. “You're wasting your breath. Try flattering someone who gives a damn.”

 

Chloé laughed, to Aya's further annoyance. “You're just as disagreeable as they said you were, I see.”

 

“'They' who? Wait, never mind,” he said as Chloé opened his mouth to answer. “I don't care. Those aren't the answers I need from you.”

 

“Then permit me to refresh myself a bit, and I will answer any questions you have.”

 

“Hn. Hurry up, then.”

 

Chloé flashed him a brilliant smile, and set about removing his long coat and gloves, revealing a nicely built figure in a ruffled silk shirt with pinstriped pants and waistcoat with a gold watch chain hanging from the pocket. Rather ostentatious for an assassin. Then again, this was a guy that apparently skewered his victims with roses.

 

Aya shook his head minutely. Weird guy.

 

After delicately laving his hands and face and grooming his hair into a state of artful deshabille, the man strode to his bedside table, which Aya had noticed was the resting place of a half-full crystal decanter and a few tumblers. The hotel was ritzy enough to have provided such things, but Aya more than half suspected that Chloé had brought all that from home. After pouring some cognac, he turned and offered the glass to Aya. “I expect you'll say no, but would you like some?”

 

“No.”

 

Unfazed, Chloé set the glass down on a coaster at the table where Aya was sitting, reached under his bed and pulled out a silver laptop, setting it on the table as well. He sat down across from Aya and sipped his drink, sighing with pleasure. “This really is quite good. If you should find yourself thirsty at any point during the evening, do let me know.”

 

“Why is an organization in England concerning itself with getting information from the New Orleans mafia?” Aya asked. He might as well get right to the point.

 

“The New Orleans mafia?” Chloé looked at Aya as though he wasn't quite sane. “What makes you think we care about the mafia in this case?”

 

Aya narrowed his eyes. “What are you trying to pull? You said you'd answer my questions.”

 

“Aya—“

 

“It's Mr. Fujimiya to you.”

 

Chloé rolled his eyes fetchingly. “Mr. Fujimiya, then. If our mutual target is indeed a member of La Cosa Nostra, it's entirely incidental. Do you believe a Kritiker-affiliated organization would be so uninformed as to be unaware that they were pursuing a mid-level Esszet agent?”

 

Aya felt the blood drain out of his face. “What?” he managed after a minute.

 

Concern widened Chloé's eyes. “Mr. Fujimiya? Are you alright?”

 

“Did you just say that man was a mid-level Esszet agent?”

 

“Of course I did! You…” Realization dawned on the blond's handsome face. “You didn't know?”

 

“No.” Aya felt ill.

 

“But…how is that possible? Why wouldn't Takatori have told you?”

 

Aya was unable to answer. His head was swirling. Did Farfarello know this? Had he sent Aya after this man knowing full well who he was?

 

Someone like Farfarello…it was impossible that he wouldn't have known.

 

“Mr. Fujimiya?” Aya felt a cold plastic bottle being pressed into his hand. Chloé was kneeling by his chair, giving him a sealed bottle of water. Aya pulled the plastic off the top and drank gratefully.

 

Feeling a little bit steadier, Aya said, “Please tell me everything you know about tonight's target.”

 

Chloé looked hesitant. “Well…I know I said I would answer your questions, but if Takatori didn't tell you he might have had good reason not to. I think—“

 

“Chloé. Please tell me.” Aya turned tormented eyes on the blond.

 

One of Chloé's hands reached out to cover one of Aya's. “I might end up in deep shit for this,” he sighed, “but I can't refuse you. Not when you look at me like that and I can't think of a single good reason for you not to know.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

Chloé returned to his chair, though he pulled it first so that he was sitting adjacent to Aya instead of across from him. He reached over and plugged a wall adapter into his laptop, opening it up and running through a series of passwords. “Our target tonight,” he said while he worked, “was in England not too long ago. He doesn't have a Talent, but he has a lot of connections in the small-scale arms industry. Black market, of course. We were unable to determine his objective there. Although he met with several minor terrorist groups, none of them appeared affiliated on the surface and we've been unable to track down any connection between them. At least, before he met with them. Now some of the groups have been associating secretly, and we are fearful that they have struck a bargain with this area's faction. This is especially worrying, because the faction in this area—which is known as `Inferno'—is very, very powerful. It's run by someone you've had dealings with in the past, as a matter of fact. A member of the team that brought down the Esszet elders, actually. He has a weird name—I can never remember it—here, this is a picture of him from a few years ago.” He turned the laptop to face Aya.

 

Farfarello's eagle eye stared at him from the screen. His lips drawn up slightly in quiet humor. Laughing at him.

 

“It's rumored that he brought another member of his old team back into the fold just within the last couple of months—Schuldig, the telepath whose name means `guilty.' I was supposed to confirm that with the target tonight, but I am going to have to return to England in the morning, so that's going to have to be investigated another way. I—Mr. Fujimiya? Are—“

 

Aya lurched out of his chair, knocking it over, and fled to the bathroom. He turned the lock with shaking hands, stumbled to the toilet and threw up violently. He shook and shook, trying to regain control of himself. There was no way this could mean what it sounded like it meant. Was there?

 

Fuck. He and Yohji had been deceived and betrayed from the beginning.

 

And Yohji?

 

But Yohji had been with Schuldig for five years. Unless…

 

Unless Yohji was a part of the betrayal.

 

When Chloé made it into the bathroom, presumably having picked the lock, Aya was splayed with his back against the tub, staring at nothing. His eyes were dry, but he could barely breathe around the porcupine that seemed to have taken up residence in his chest.

 

The blond dropped to his knees beside him, gathering Aya into his arms. He was enveloped in the soft scent of roses. It reminded him of the flower shop, back in the old days. He couldn't think of them as the `good old days,' since they'd all been angsty assassins even then, but they sure seemed a fuck of a lot simpler.

 

Goddamn fucking Farfarello. Goddamn fucking Schuldig. Goddamn fucking Esszet Schwarz motherfucking bastards…could Yohji be one of them? Was that possible? Did Takatori know? Takatori had goddamn fucking Nagi of Schwarz working for him, stayed in close contact with goddamn fucking Crawford. Of course he knew.

 

“Shit,” Aya choked, clutching at Chloé. “Fucking shit.”

 

He wished he had just let himself be locked up with Ken, who was now dying. Ken, who probably knew as little about all this as he did, if not less.

 

When had he become so blind?

 

And this Chloé-person, who was holding him and rocking gently, how could he possibly trust this guy, whom he had just barely met? Was all this somehow a lie? Maybe it was a lie.

 

How could it be a lie?

 

He couldn't think at all. He wanted to scream and scream and never stop.

 

“Aya,” Chloé was saying. Aya was glad he'd dropped the `Mr. Fujimiya' nonsense that Aya had insisted on. Aya was an idiot; he didn't deserve to command that sort of respect. “Aya, let me help you. However I can help you, I want to. I don't know what's happened, or what I told you that made you react this way, but it seems that somewhere along the line someone has grossly misled you. Please let me try to help you.”

 

Getting something of a grip on himself, Aya straightened up and got his shaking under control. “Give me a couple of minutes, please, Chloé.”

 

The blond regarded him dubiously. He reluctantly nodded. “Alright, but only a couple of minutes. And please leave the door open. I would ask for your weapons as well if I thought there was the slightest chance of you giving them to me.”

 

Aya snorted. “If I'm going to do myself in, it won't be in here. I just need to regain my composure, that's all.”

 

Still looking highly doubtful, the blond said, “Two minutes and I'm coming back in.” He rose and left, leaving the door standing wide.

 

Aya stood up and rinsed the sour tang of bile out of his mouth at the sink, splashing the cold water on his face. He stared at himself in the mirror.

 

He was slightly amazed at to realize that his despair was quickly disappearing, to be replaced with the more welcome feeling of being utterly pissed off. No, pissed off wasn't strong enough for the sensation beginning to burn inside. It was rage he hadn't felt in years; strong, righteous, all-consuming. Maddening. It had only ever been directed to Reiji Takatori, this kind of rage.

 

He wasn't sure precisely who he needed to direct it at now, but hell if he wasn't going to find out. Chloé, while no more trustworthy than anyone else, was as good a place as any to start.

 

Fuck if he was going to be played for this much of a fool.

 

Though the rage stormed through him, tempestuous, he found he was able to slip into a mission focus. He was pleased to note that he felt far more disciplined than during his `Takatori shi-ne' days.

 

He strode out of the bathroom to the table where Chloé and his laptop sat. Chloé appeared to be about to inquire whether he was okay, but froze as Aya turned spitting-venom eyes on him. “Dear God,” the blond whispered.

 

Sitting calmly down, eyes never leaving Chloé's paling visage, Aya growled, “Tell me everything you know about Inferno and the former members of Schwarz.”

 

Chloé nodded grimly. “Of course.”