Yami No Matsuei Fan Fiction / Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ Monozuki ❯ Ken and Hyssop ( Chapter 9 )

Monozuki - An Idle Curiosity

A Weiss Kreuz/Yami no Matsuei crossover.

 

Monozuki 9 - Ken and Hyssop

 

By Lisa

 

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Author's Note… *grumble* My apologies. My partner failed to tell me that she'd already uploaded this chapter onto ff.net. If you've read it there, thank you for the comments (Shay!). I'm sorry that I didn't respond.

 

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Shit. These days, everything just comes out wrong. Ken moodily kicked at the enormous planter outside the mall entrance and tried not to let his temper get the better of him. It wasn't as if Omi was late on purpose. Shit happened.

 

Unfortunately, in this case, it was making Ken late for work, and he so did not want to try to explain it to Aya, whom he was due to relieve in less than an hour, from clear across the city. For some reason, the thought of making excuses to the darkly hostile swordsman scared the younger man.

 

Officially, he and Omi were at the mall the way they were every Monday and Thursday morning: to deliver fresh floral arrangements to several up-scale boutiques, and to a couple of businesses in the office tower that anchored one end of the mall complex. They and the Koneko's little delivery van were such familiar sights that the mall's private security ignored the vehicle parked in the loading zone next to the dock with its flashers going. But that would only buy them so much time. The unofficial reason for the visit, and most likely the reason that Omi was late, was that today they were doing recon on a brokerage house with its offices on the seventeenth floor. Omi was supposed to have stopped up with a lavish display addressed to the corporation's vice president from a fictitious client, and things couldn't be going well if he wasn't back yet.

 

Ought he to go check? Or should he stick to the agreed upon plan, and just wait? According to his watch, the kid was already ten minutes late, although it felt more like an eternity. Conflicted, Ken gnawed on the side of one knuckle, and kicked the big planter again. God, he hated waiting. Omi had better have plans about making it up to him.

 

The worst part, of course, was that if anything went wrong, the soccer player was doomed to stay in the dark about it. They weren't wearing communications rigs for fear of being spotted, and it wasn't until well after Omi had left that Ken had found the blond boy's cell phone on the floor of the van, presumably dropped out of a pocket of his baggy tan cargo pants. The cell phone was now clutched in Ken's hand, concealed deep in one of his own pockets.

 

It didn't help that the layout of the mall itself made for lousy lines of sight. He was stuck waiting for the smaller boy at the entrance nearest to the dock, caught in an angle between the looming office tower itself, and a five-level parking garage. The rumble of vehicles, and the squealing of tires on the tight spiral of the exit ramp set Ken's nerves on edge, and he ground his teeth together in frustration. He had already tried playing `red car/white car' and so far, red was in the lead by three. He had speculated on the profession of each person going through the revolving doors of the office tower proper, just a little farther down the sidewalk than his station by the mall entrance, but that was even worse than counting cars because it seemed as if every one had to be a stock broker. That sad delusion reminded him of where Omi was, and made Ken's stomach clench even tighter with worry.

 

Swearing under his breath, the brunet checked his watch - again - and cursed that less than two minutes had passed since the last time he had looked. At this rate, he was going to be gray-haired and hobbling with a cane before his teammate got his butt back downstairs.

 

But it wasn't as if he had any other choices. The last bucket of carnations in the back of the van had already been used to buy a few extra minutes, allowing him to wave cheerily to the guards and bustle back inside the mall, apparently still hard at work. There was nothing else left, no arrangements that he could use as a prop to let him venture to the upper levels of the office tower in search of his wayward partner, and so the impatient athlete was just going to have to tough it out, and wait.

 

As missions went, this one sucked big time.

 

Hands flexing, as if working his absent bugnuks, Ken suppressed an urge to start pacing, and settled for rhythmically kicking at the big concrete planter, scuffing the toes of his sneakers. It made a lousy substitute for a soccer ball, but under the circumstances, it was about all he could think to do as he kept a surreptitious and increasingly concerned eye out for his best friend.

 

Part of the problem was that as lunch time drew nearer, the crowd was thickening. Pretty soon, the ex-ball player wouldn't be able to see someone Omi's height at all, given that he wasn't all that much taller, himself. There were moments where Ken envied the older Weiss, and this was one of them. And ditto for the broad-shouldered apparition in white that cut through the milling people like a hot knife through butter. Most of the crowd didn't even seem aware that they were giving ground to expensively tailored perfection, and the man acted as if it were his just due.

 

Ken hated people like that, lording it over the common, ordinary folks, and he made sure his opinion was visible on his face when the stranger made casual eye contact.

 

Right about then was when it occurred to the wiry brunet that he might be making a serious mistake, but he resolutely brushed the concept away.

 

Still walking toward him, the man practically stripped Ken naked with his challenging stare, seemingly seeing and dismissing the boy's compact musculature and aggressive stance as beneath his notice. As unworthy. Ken bristled, even as his instincts warned him to back down, to get out of the line of fire. The Hell. Hidaka Ken didn't back down for anybody, least of all some over-dressed salary man, no matter that he looked as if he could be the owner of the whole freaking mall.

 

He felt the familiar, hot burn of his temper… only, this time it didn't seem to be working. The stranger, tall and powerfully built, paused as he was passing, and inclined his head gracefully in Ken's direction.

 

“You smell really quite delectable.” he murmured, the educated, upper-class voice low and outwardly bored. The tips of long fingers just grazed Ken's shoulder as the well-dressed man deliberated. Then he added, “Blood is such an aphrodisiac.” His glasses glinted, concealing a lone, pewter-gray eye, and Ken fought the very real shiver that raced down his spine. The stranger took a measured step closer, then another, till his long white coat whispered sensuously against the boy's faded jeans jacket, and Ken's shiver nearly became a convulsion. He leaned weakly against the equally white exterior wall of the mall, curling his body instinctively to protect his vulnerable zones, and the bone-white man's smile grew terrifyingly feral and hungry. Then the episode was over, and the stranger was simply standing a good four feet from the shaking boy.

 

Of course, that was when Ken spotted a familiar, puppyish shape darting through the passers-by on the crowded sidewalk, heading his way.

 

Omi.

 

Ken wanted to scream at his partner to Run!! but his lungs were seizing up, and only a dry cough escaped him.

 

That peculiar, silver eye glittered dangerously as the sleek head tilted, tracking the line of Ken's sight, swiveling the graceful body slightly. Mildly hysterical, the younger assassin noted that the weirdo never turned his back, never allowed Ken access to a more vulnerable, defenseless target. Whoever he was, he understood fighting. But then that hot gaze was lingering over Omi's oblivious form, following the contours of the deceptively frail, childish body of their littlest teammate, and something about the non-expression on the man's face made Ken's blood chill to ice water in his veins. He recognized that look: speculative, but hungry.

 

The look of a dominant predator.

 

And it was focused with single-minded intensity on Ken's best friend.

 

There was nothing for it; he had to intervene, to distract. Without thinking, the brunet invoked every ounce of clumsiness in his repertoire, and knocked against the pail by his feet that had held bunches of long stemmed carnations, and was now filled with a couple gallons of vaguely bitter, tea-colored water. A tidal wave sloshed out, flooding over the stranger's shoes, and splashing his pristine white slacks to the knees. The bigger man spun about, moving with a feline ease that was at odds with his size. The concealing wing of frost-white hair floated up, lifting in slow motion from his forehead, and revealed his other eye.

 

It stared down at Ken, in cold, reptilian brightness that absorbed every detail, and flayed the metaphoric flesh from his bones. The eye's vertical slit pupil contracted in the vivid sunshine, and Ken's heart squeezed shut along with it. Somewhere, deep in the part of his brain that was running around in tiny, little hysterical circles, a voice gibbered that slit pupils were a sign of a soul that had been contracted to Hell, but his animalistic reflexes were busy propelling a whimpering Ken backwards, slamming his shoulders into the textured concrete hard enough to bruise. He was too damned busy hyperventilating and panicking to listen to any nonsense about demons and contracts.

 

“Ohayo, Ken-kun!” The cheerful hail, instantly recognizable as Omi's light alto sent another spasm of terror through the brunet's body. The stranger's mismatched silver eyes narrowed, noting Ken's response and everything that it gave away, then he was moving smoothly on an intercept course with the boy jogging toward them.

 

For some reason, the trained assassin in Ken observed that after the first step, the peculiar man didn't leave any wet footprints behind, almost as if he had warped into some alternate dimension where no one else could see him. Certainly, Omi was oblivious to the danger bent on crossing his path, his open face lit by a happy grin as he headed toward his teammate.

 

Ken tried to scream Run! but nothing came out this time, either.

 

He couldn't move, couldn't shout. The stranger was walking away, his long white coat swaying with the smooth rhythm of soundless footsteps, the sun blindingly bright on his gleaming white hair. Omi still didn't see the man, no matter that he was strikingly tall and broad shouldered, and dressed like no one else in the casual, work-a-day crowd. The two - petit teenager in his baggy brown cargo shorts and rock band tee-shirt, and alien apparition in white - brushed past each other, and for a bare second, Ken thought that he could start breathing again, and his heart start pumping blood, because nothing had happened. But then Omi paled and his clear, lake-blue eyes widened in shock. He staggered, halting with his feet planted well apart, and clutched at his stomach as those bewildered eyes looked down at his front.

 

Brilliant crimson was leaking over the boy's thin fingers, and dripping to the pavement.

 

Whatever thrall it was that held Ken bound silent and motionless was broken in that instant. He screamed “Omi!!” and flung himself forward, kicking the plastic bucket at his feet. Its remaining brown water fountained up, but Ken scarcely noticed, dashing through the spray toward his friend. The blond boy glanced up at the shriek, blinking in confused recognition.

 

“K- Ken-kun…?” Omi whimpered. He took a single, stumbling stride forward, and crumpled. Somewhere, in the mass of people that had stopped its flow in and out of the mall doors, a falsetto screaming started up, and like a siren, it kept on wailing without a pause for breath. Ken shoved roughly between the pedestrians forming like a clot around his teammate, flinging himself to his knees.

 

“Omi!” he sobbed. “Dammit, you're not supposed to get hurt like this! We aren't even on a mission.” Indecisive, his hands hovered over the smaller boy's, torn between helping and fear that anything he did would make matters worse. His broad hands, muscular and blunt fingered, belonged to a killer. How could he possibly help?

 

“Stop, Ken-kun…” Bloody fingers clamped around Ken's, settling the question of whether to touch or not. Omi's eyes fluttered, the veiling, dark tawny lashes in stark contrast to the dilated pupils. “It's… not… that bad.” the boy whimpered. “Just a slice. A mugging gone bad… Right, Ken?”

 

The peculiar emphasis on the final words cut through the paranoia and panic swirling in Ken's mind; Omi was giving him directions, telling him what to do. And, with that direction, his brain lurched back into gear.

 

They needed to be gone before mall security or, worse, the police arrived.

Decisive, Ken nodded, and said loudly, “I saw the mugger. He was headed for the parking garage.” Like sheep, several people in the crowd immediately began an outraged murmur that they, too, had seen the culprit headed that way. The young Hunter's chocolate brown eyes lit on a salary man who had his cell phone out, presumably calling in the cops, and he added, “Hey, can you tell the police I'm taking my buddy to Tokyo General Hospital? It's really close, and I don't want him to wait for an ambulance to get here.”

 

Startled, the businessman nodded, and began relaying the bogus details to the police dispatcher. Ken watched for a long moment then, satisfied, his gaze flickered back down to the blood-stained figure on the ground. Omi's mouth quirked in a trembling smile, and he gave a tiny nod of approval. Distraught, Ken whispered, “I'm sorry, Ommitchi, but this is gonna hurt.” as he slid an arm carefully beneath the slightly built boy's legs, and another around his shoulders. A muffled inhalation confirmed that it did hurt, but by then, Ken had his friend cradled against his chest, and was rising to his feet. No one made any effort to stop them as he broke into a trot and headed for the delivery van.

 

Thank God they didn't have the shop's name, just their logo of the grinning kitty painted on its side. With luck, no one would be able to give a decent description to the police, or think to note down their plate number; after all, Omi was the victim, not the bad guy, and they were on their way to the hospital.

 

Not that he had any intention of actually going to Tokyo General.

 

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Hyssop - Wards away evil spirits