Fanfic Archive: Redemption, 7
May. 28th, 2009 03:03 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
texchan(Written: 2004)
Warnings: Bad Language. Violence. Shounen-ai (implied)
Summary: Yohji and a critically injured Aya find themselves drummed out of Weiss and on the run from Kritiker. Against this backdrop, they must locate and retrieve something very precious to the man who betrayed Aya ... a man Aya still calls his friend, despite all that has passed between them. When their options run out, the boys have no choice but to undertake a foolhardy mission that will end up putting Aya at Schuldich's mercy. Will our kittens be able to extract themselves from this mess and return to Weiss? Or will Schuldich get his revenge, after all?
Legal Stuff: As always, this story is intended to express one fan's genuine appreciation of Weiss Kreuz and its characters. It is just for fun and not for profit. If you have any rights in the anime described here and find the posting of this fanfiction offensive or harmful, please contact me, and I will be happy to remove it.
Author's Note: Story #3 in the "Nowhere Man" trilogy. Story #1: Nowhere Man. Story #2: Betrayal
Redemption
Chapter 7
Yohji stood in the doorway of the pilot house watching Aya, who was practicing on the deck. The tall blonde leaned against one side of the door frame, a coffee cup clenched in one hand, his free arm wrapped around his stomach, and a small frown on his face. His eyes followed the complicated, twisting, zigzag path Aya traveled across the deck, as he executed one complex practice pattern after another. It was cold, and a strong wind battered the yacht from side-to-side, pushing large whitecaps up against the boat until water came over the sides to flow across the deck. Every few seconds, another loud crash would herald the arrival of more water. Gallons upon gallons washed over the deck, eddying and flowing around Aya, sometimes only ankle-deep, but, at other times, coming as high as his knees before rolling off the other side of the yacht and back into the ocean. The deck was wet and slick, and the footing was treacherous. Yohji was afraid Aya was either going to slip and fall over the railing, or a particularly large wave was going to sweep him off the deck. He took another sip of coffee and frowned again, wishing the redhead would just come back inside. Still, Yohji knew he'd never convince Aya to do that, so he hovered and worried silently in the pilot house door, tensed and prepared to go to the redhead's rescue, should the need arise. It wasn't nearly satisfactory to the tall blonde, but he knew, under the circumstances, it was the best he could do.
Yohji mentally clicked off the number of days they'd been aboard the boat. He figured it had to be somewhere around mid January. He was rather surprised, as Christmas seemed to have completely passed them by, unnoticed. Yohji took another sip of coffee and decided Christmas had just gotten lost in amongst everything else that was going on. He wondered if Omi and Ken had done anything to celebrate the holiday --- not that any of them really believed in or made a big deal about Christmas. He hadn't ever thought about it, but he figured they had all come to the inescapable conclusion Christmas had no meaning for them and no place in their lives. After all, the holiday was all about redemption, a commodity that was sadly unavailable to them, considering the type of work they did. It seemed it was truly impossible to wash away some sins.
At any rate, the New Year would be upon them in a matter of weeks. He silently wondered what year it was. When he was a child, his mom had told him he'd have good luck all year whenever the year for his sign came around. Of course, he was beyond believing in such fantasies now. Long ago, he had concluded there were only two certainties in the universe: anything that could go wrong would, and everyone was going to die … some sooner than others. He didn't believe in luck any more --- unless it was bad. Besides, he couldn't even remember what sign he was. Still, as he watched Aya twist and turn his way across the deck and then back again, he silently wished this year belonged to the redhead's sign. That guy needed all the help he could get … you know, just in case good luck really did exist.
Aya had only felt strong enough to get out of bed for the past three or four days. Before that, while he was still bedridden, he and Yohji had surreptitiously cruised various Internet chat rooms and posting boards, in the hopes of finding a lead on Schuldich and Hank's daughter. At first, Yohji had been nervous about taking to the 'Net. They hadn't had any trouble with Kritiker after the organization's first, failed attempt at retiring Aya. Yohji thought he should have been relieved about that, but, oddly enough, he wasn't. Instead of making him feel safer and more relaxed, Kritiker's conspicuous absence made him more edgy and nervous. It was just too easy. Kritiker was huge; it was everywhere, and it should have been harder for them to hide. It should have been harder for them to move about the city without being detected, especially considering that neither of them had done anything to really change their appearance. Other than the fact Aya's hair had grown out to mid-back length during his recovery and he had decided not to cut it, they hadn't even gone to the trouble of changing the way they wore their hair. Still, they had moved around freely, without being recognized or spotted by the many undercover Kritiker agents he knew had to be combing the city for them. In Yohji's book, it was a case of something being too good to believe, and it made him suspicious and jumpy. Besides, he had that rule: anything that could go wrong would, and, falling back on that universal truth, he couldn't help wondering when their run of blissfully good luck would end. So, when Aya had suggested they start cruising the Internet to supplement their search for the German, Yohji had protested, thinking it would alert Kritiker to their presence. Aya had only sighed and shaken his head in a sad, little gesture, replying: "Don't you have any faith in me, Yohji?"
Yohji still remembered how he hadn't really had any response to Aya's question. It had surprised him, the sad, melancholy way in which Aya had said it --- almost like a joke, but, then again, not quite joking. It wasn't a case of not having faith. He trusted and believed in Aya; otherwise, he would never have placed his life in the redhead's hands so many times. But, he was scared for Aya, even though he hadn't known how to say it. Instead, he had done the next-best thing. He had acquired a laptop from Smitty so they could search the Internet from the yacht, which was already rigged up with the appropriate connections.
All this computer crap was mumbo-jumbo to Yohji. He had always thought of himself as an "action guy", whereas people like Omi --- people who were a lot smarter than him --- were the "background guys", the "planning guys", the "intel. guys" … whatever you wanted to call them. He had always subconsciously thought of Aya as an "action guy", too. Who knew why; maybe it was because of the strange connection he felt to the quiet man, which led him to believe they were more alike than it seemed on the surface. But, after watching Aya for a few minutes, Yohji had had to concede that, either the redhead was also an "intel guy", or Omi had taught him very well. Aya moved through one chat room and posting board after another, leaving messages that would mean nothing to the casual observer, but that Schuldich would be certain to notice, while deftly taking steps to conceal his presence and location.
So far, they hadn't gotten any hits on their postings. They had been checking the classified ads in the papers on a daily basis, too. In the past, Schwarz had sent challenges to them that way, and, for whatever reason, the classifieds were Brad Crawford's favorite method for communicating with his operatives. Even though it appeared Schuldich was on this rampage alone, it had seemed likely that the German might fall back on familiar means of communication. At any rate, none of them had considered checking the classifieds to be a waste of time. So far, they hadn't had any luck in that area, either, so, for now, all they could do was wait.
But, sitting, waiting, and doing nothing had begun to take its toll on all of them. Hank had been hit the hardest, which was only natural, since his daughter was missing. She had been gone for at least a month now, with no sign of her location and no new communication from her kidnapper. The normally-gregarious Texan had become more and more withdrawn. He spent hours alone in the galley or pilot house, and, when he was with Yohji or Aya, he barely made conversation. Yohji knew the man hadn't been sleeping well, either. He hadn't noticed it while Aya was down, because his attention had been so preoccupied with the redhead's needs, but, now that Aya was better, he had noticed Hank's pale, ashy-looking skin, the grayish pallor, and the huge, dark circles under his eyes. Worse yet, the Texan had started drinking again. He'd been sober ever since taking the job with them at the flower shop, but, within the past couple of days, Yohji had found him out on deck on more than one occasion, drunk off his ass. He hadn't told Aya, thinking that the redhead hadn't noticed and not wanting to worry him unduly. But, last night, Aya had approached him and said, in that soft, gentle way of his, that he thought Hank was in trouble. When Yohji had asked for additional details, Aya had told him he knew Hank was drinking. It seemed Yohji hadn't been the only one who had had the privilege of dragging the drunken Texan off the yacht's deck. They had both made a point of reassuring their companion, on an almost daily basis, that they weren't giving up, and that they would get his daughter back, unharmed. Hank always smiled his thanks and said he believed them and trusted them, but, still, Yohji didn't think the reassurances did much good. It was his daughter, after all; how could the man not worry?
But, at the moment, Hank wasn't his only problem. The waiting around and helpless feeling that accompanied it were starting to get to Aya, too. The redhead was struggling to maintain the confident, slightly-icy demeanor he always employed in dealing with all things Weiss, and, on the surface, he seemed calm, cool, collected, and totally in-control. But, Yohji knew Aya a lot better than that. He could tell the attitude was just a façade. Inside, Aya was terrified they wouldn't be able to get the little girl back, but the redhead was determined not to let it show in front of Hank. Not only that, but, in that special, completely self-destructive way he had of dealing with such things, Aya had drawn all of the guilt over Keiko's abduction, their current situation with Kritiker, and Schuldich's vendetta around himself like a shroud. Yohji could tell the redhead was, as always, determined to shoulder everyone's guilt, and it seemed to be eating away at him, little by little. Yohji figured that was what had driven him up onto the deck with his sword, in the first place.
He didn't have any idea how long Aya had been out here. He had awakened early, and found the redhead's cabin empty, except for Bubba. Aya must have locked the dog in there to keep him off of the deck, and Bubba was not at all happy about it. After barely managing to shove the whining, drooling animal back into Aya's cabin, followed by a quick search of the yacht, he had located Aya here, silhouetted against the pinkish-gray, early morning sky, working through practice routine after practice routine against a backdrop of spraying salt water. Normally, the redhead was incredibly perceptive, but Aya hadn't noticed Yohji's presence yet. The blonde tried not to let it worry him, and he rationalized Aya's lapse by attributing it to several factors: Aya had yet to recover from his injuries, he was completely lost in the rhythm and flow of his sword work, and the waves crashing against the yacht created an almost-deafening roar, which blocked any outside noise. From the looks of him, the tall blonde figured Aya must have been out here for a while, perhaps even a good part of the night.
Even from this distance and in the dim half-light of early morning, Yohji could see that Aya's hair was dark and slick from sweat and ocean spray. For the most part, it was plastered to his head, although he wore it loose, and the ends whipped around him as he twisted and turned, following behind the flow of his body and sword. He had, apparently, swept his bangs out of the way with his hand at some point during his work out. They were slicked back in a rather messy tangle, away from his face. Although it was cold, Aya wore only a pair of Yohji's dark-colored sweat pants, which were way too baggy on him and hung loosely at his hips, and his feet were bare. With each movement, each turn, each ripple of his muscles, the sunlight glinted off the sweat and salt water coating his skin. It almost looked like he glowed with a strange, unearthly sheen.
Although they occasionally sparred together, wire against blade, Yohji had rarely seen Aya practice. The redhead was a skilled swordsman, and, despite their dangerous profession, he was still alive --- both indicators of a lot of practice time --- but, Aya hated being watched. He normally snuck off in the early morning hours to practice in solitude. On a few occasions, though, the tall blonde had surreptitiously followed Aya to the park, where he had watched, unnoticed, as the swordsman threw his mind and body into hours of rigorous training. Then, as now, Yohji had been transfixed by the redhead's graceful movements and skill with the sword, which seemed like an extension of his body. The blade flashed through the light, almost with a life of its own, but, always, inextricably, connected with Aya, and the swordsman moved quickly and easily through one practice routine after another, seemingly oblivious to the deadly weapon he held. As he whirled from one movement to another, twisting, first to the right, then to the left, twirling the blade around his head, then, around his shoulders, and then, with only a slight shift in weight from one foot to the other, around his lower body, the weapon ceased being an object of death. Instead, it was a ribbon of light flashing around Aya. It was graceful and beautiful --- a delicately balanced, deadly dance between man and blade, and, in that ruthless beauty, Yohji found it easy to forget how Aya's sword cut through people so viciously and easily, severing heads and body parts, ending lives almost effortlessly. When he saw the redhead like this, Yohji found he could almost believe Aya was from some other world --- he was too graceful, too deadly-beautiful, to be human. Not that he believed in such things, but, if he had, Yohji would have thought the redhead looked like an angel --- a glittering, graceful, ruthless messenger from some great beyond. The only things spoiling the perfection of the scene were the wounds criss-crossing Aya's back. They were still red and irritated from the recent infection, and some of them had torn open during his practice session, sending tiny rivulets of red running down his back, where they mixed with the sweat and were washed away by the salt spray. Also, Aya's steps, although still graceful, were halting and jerky, as opposed to the smooth, flowing movements he would normally have employed, probably due to the pain from his most recent injuries.
The sound of Bubba's dog tags clinking together heralded Hank's approach. The Texan stomped heavily up the stairs leading from the galley and cabins into the pilot house, Bubba trotting happily at his heels.
"Damn," Hank whispered, as he approached Yohji from behind.
Yohji turned to face Hank, acknowledging the Texan's presence and greeting him with a slight nod. He bent to scratch behind Bubba's ears, mumbling, "So, you finally get let out?" He returned to his previous spot in the doorway, moving aside slightly, so that there was enough room for Hank to join him.
"Oh, yeah," Hank replied as he moved forward to join Yohji, "I … uh … heard him whining inside, so I took him with me … you know, on the supply run. Hope that was OK."
Yohji nodded. "Yeah, it's fine. I think Aya just didn't want him out on the deck while he was practicing."
Hank moved into the doorway, carefully placing his body so that he blocked Bubba, who was whining and pushing against his legs, from running out onto the deck. The Texan leaned on the opposite side of the door frame, clutching his own cup of coffee in one hand, and said, softly, "I … I never knew … he could do that."
Yohji simply shrugged in response.
The two men stood in silence, watching as Aya twisted and whirled through yet another routine, traveling from one side of the deck to the other, in a complicated pattern of swirls, twists, and turns. He lunged, twirled, and cut the air with a precision that was beautiful in both its grace and its deadliness. Wrapped in the mist and spray from the ocean, it was as if his feet never touched the deck.
"He … looks like … an angel," Hank muttered, almost under his breath.
Yohji snorted, "Yeah … angel of death." He couldn't quite keep the sarcastic note out of his voice, but he added, in a softer tone, "He really is something to watch, isn't he? He's probably one of the best in Japan, not that anyone will ever know. Just to look at him, you'd never guess, huh?"
Hank nodded his agreement. "How long you think he's been out there?" he asked, around a mouthful of coffee.
Yohji shrugged, "Found him here when I woke up. From the looks of it, maybe the whole damn night. Who the hell knows?"
"He's bleeding," Hank commented, as he noticed, for the first time, that Aya had torn open several of the wounds on his back, as well as the stitches on his side from the recent gunshot wound. Whenever the water receded enough, he could see red spatters and droplets all across the boat's deck, clearly marking Aya's various paths.
"Yeah," Yohji replied, draining the last of his coffee.
"Looks like a lot," Hank said, never taking his eyes off of Aya, who was still unaware of their presence.
"Yeah," Yohji said again, his voice flat and emotionless.
"Don't you think he should come in?" Hank asked, turning an incredulous, questioning stare toward Yohji. "I mean … what are you gonna do about it?"
Bubba whined, apparently seconding Hank's opinion.
Yohji shrugged and said, with a tired sigh, "Fish him out of the ocean if he falls in." In response to Hank's continued stare, Yohji explained, "He won't come in until he's totally exhausted, unable to move. I've seen him like this before. There's nothing I can do, except wait for that to happen … and hope he doesn't fall overboard."
"But, why?" Hank asked.
Yohji shrugged and replied, "Waiting … not being able to do anything … anger … guilt. He's convinced himself this whole thing is his fault."
As the blonde spoke, it looked like Aya had started to reach his limit. Yohji tensed and moved slightly away from the door frame as Aya slipped to one knee, finally on the verge of exhaustion. The redhead caught himself, though, and struggled back into a standing position, using the sword, which had embedded in the wood of the deck, as a crutch. After pausing for a couple of seconds --- panting, slumped over, hands on knees, and head hanging --- he started the last, most complicated, routine again. Yohji sighed in frustration and sank back into his waiting position, still tensed to move at a second's notice, if necessary.
"Anyhow," Yohji continued, "when he's like this … there's no talking to him." He paused for a moment before muttering, "Not that you can ever really tell him anything."
"But he's gonna hurt himself," Hank said, concern edging into his voice.
"He already has," Yohji replied, grimly. "Some of those cuts are new." He glanced over at Hank for a brief moment, before turning his attention back to Aya. "You get the supplies OK?"
"Uh … yeah," Hank replied. "I … um … I got the papers, too. I left them in the galley."
Yohji nodded.
Aya slipped twice more, finally falling to his hands and knees, and the sword clattered to the deck, just out of easy reach. Aya managed to move to a sitting position, but he didn't reach for the sword right away. It seemed to be all he could do just to hold himself fairly upright, and he sat on the bloody, cold, wet, deck, shoulders slumped forward, breathing heavily.
"Well," Yohji commented, setting his empty coffee cup on the nearest flat surface, "looks like he's finally done."
Yohji stood up and leaned away from the side of the door frame on which he'd been resting, apparently intending to move out onto the deck to retrieve Aya. Before the tall blonde could move forward, a freakishly huge wave slammed against the side of the yacht. It was like a wall of water moving toward them. It towered over the boat for a moment that seemed frozen in time, dwarfing the yacht and covering it in shadow, until, finally, the wave broke and tumbled down with the force of a falling building. Water that was at least waist-high washed over the boat and splashed forcefully against Aya's body. The weight and force of it drove him to the deck, and the wave's sweep caught the sword and sent it spinning toward the deck's edge. Aya knew he had to stay on his feet in order to stay alive, and, despite his exhaustion, he struggled to stand. For a fraction of a second, he glanced from the sword, which was quickly tumbling its way toward the ocean's blue oblivion, to the pilot house, which offered him sanctuary and safety from the water that seemed intent on tossing him overboard, along with his sword. He could only reach one. Then, just like that, years of discipline and training won out, and he leapt through the crashing wave, riding it toward the deck's edge in an attempt to rescue the sword before the water dragged it overboard.
"Fuck," Yohji hissed, instantly dashing forward. "Hank, hang onto that damn dog."
Bubba had already started struggling to get to Aya. Hank quickly grabbed his collar, and barely managed to keep the dog from flying through the door by throwing all of his weight against the animal. He ended up sitting on the floor as Yohji pushed past him to get out onto the deck. All he could do was hang on for dear life and pray he was strong enough to hold onto Bubba, who had become a mass of frantic, frenzied energy. The dog's nails made scrabbling sounds as he dug gouges into the floor during his struggle for freedom, and he alternated between panicked whining, angry snarling, and frenzied barking. Within moments, Hank and everything within arm's reach in the pilot house was liberally coated with dog slobber, and Hank silently hoped Bubba wouldn't decide to turn around and attack him in a bid for freedom.
As Yohji moved carefully out into the water, he spotted a towel lying close to the pilot house wall. Aya had probably brought it out here with him, to use after he finished his workout, and, by some miracle, it hadn't been caught in the huge wave. The blonde felt almost stupidly grateful for this small bit of good luck --- the first in what seemed like a very long time. He picked up the towel as he passed it, immediately tearing it into two halves, which he wound around his hands as he waded further out into the waist-high deluge pounding the deck.
The tall blonde positioned himself in the wave's shallowest part, simultaneously unleashing a wire from his watch. The thin metal seemed to sing as it sliced through air and then water, and Yohji held his breath, silently praying, to anyone or anything that might listen, for the weapon to fly straight and true. This was one time when he couldn't afford to miss; he wouldn't get another chance.
Aya had managed to grab his sword, but he got caught in the wave's backwash. He was too exhausted to swim free, and the water's forward momentum was already tumbling him toward the deck's edge. The wire cut straight through the water, like a hot knife through butter. It reached Aya and twined around his arm just as the water's force finally swept him over the edge and toward the silent, icy deep. Aya was lost from view within the crashing, tumbling wave, and Yohji wasn't sure whether or not his aim had been true. He immediately felt the wire pull taut, and he sent up another silent prayer --- this time asking to have caught his teammate and not the deck railing. The tall blonde immediately retreated back a few steps, into the shadow of the pilot house, in search of more solid footing and some shelter from the water that continued to crash and tumble over the boat, mercilessly pounding everything in its path. Yohji had hoped to drag Aya toward him and away from the edge of the deck, but the wave was like a living beast, and it refused to relinquish its prey so easily. After briefly struggling against its force, Yohji realized all he could do was hang on for the precious few seconds it would take for the wave to finish breaking and wash completely over the boat.
It all happened in a matter of seconds, almost too quickly for Hank to even follow the action with his eyes. After the huge wave broke, the wind subsided, and the water's roar gave way to an almost eerie silence, which was punctuated only by the sound of smaller whitecaps slapping against the sides of the yacht and water running off of the deck in little streams. The wave's force had swept everything except Aya off the deck. Luckily, Yohji's aim had been accurate, despite the poor visibility, and the redhead was sitting about halfway between the middle of the deck and its edge. He didn't seem too much the worse for wear. The wire had gone loose almost immediately, once the water had receded, but it was still wrapped around Aya's arm. It had inflicted a deep cut, and, although the wound wasn't bleeding yet, Yohji knew it would turn into a fairly good-sized gash when he removed the wire. Aya didn't try to free himself of Yohji's weapon. Instead, he sat perfectly still for several minutes, hunched over and panting heavily, as if he needed all his energy just to breathe, until he started coughing up some of the sea water he had swallowed. After another few minutes, he shook the water out of his hair, and ran a shaking hand through the soaked, red mass, slicking it back from his face.
Yohji hadn't realized he'd been holding his breath all this time, but, when Aya started moving around, indicating he wasn't injured, the tall blonde let it out in one long, heartfelt sigh of relief. He looked over his shoulder at Hank, and gave the Texan a relieved, crooked grin, as he commented, "Damn. My first deep-sea fishing experience, and look what I caught!"
Hank couldn't believe Yohji could joke at a time like this, after what they had just gone through. He had thought Ran was a goner, for sure, and he'd been too petrified to do anything more than hang on to the stupid dog. But, the tall blonde's sunglasses had partially come off, hanging from just one ear so that they were slightly askew on his face, and he wore a slightly miffed, yet slightly surprised, expression. He looked so funny that Hank found he was unable to suppress his laughter. The blonde shrugged and gave Hank another crooked grin before he straightened his sunglasses and walked out across the deck.
Yohji crossed the deck in a few long strides, and squatted on his heels next to Aya, who was doubled-over, still coughing and spitting up water. He gently rubbed the younger man's back, careful to avoid the re-opened, bleeding wounds, and asked, "You OK?"
Aya managed to stop coughing and retching long enough to glare at him. He shrugged away from Yohji's hand with a hissed, "Leave me the fuck alone."
Yohji sighed, rolled his eyes, and muttered, "Maybe I should throw you back."
"Come on," he said, as, with another sigh, he pulled Aya to his feet and shoved him roughly toward the pilot house. "Get down to the galley so I can sew those cuts up again," he snapped.
Aya didn't protest. On shaking legs, he stumbled silently toward the pilot house, and then, down the stairs leading to the galley.
***************************************************
About twenty minutes later, Hank, Yohji, Aya, and Bubba had all congregated in the small galley. As usual, the big dog had wedged himself into the small space under the table, where he rested his head on Aya's feet. Occasionally, he would raise his head slightly with a whine, so that he could look adoringly at his favorite human companion. Aya sat on one of the attached benches, his back to the door, and Yohji stood behind him, patiently sewing up the cuts on his back, some of which had opened during his practice session, some that had opened during the struggle against the wave, and some that were newly inflicted by Aya's overzealous sword work. Hank sat across from them and watched, mystified by Yohji's quick, deft hand motions.
"What is it?" Yohji asked, when he looked up from his work to find Hank staring at him.
"Um … nothing," Hank replied. He stared down in embarrassment at his hands, which he had placed, palms down, flat against the table in front of him. "It's just … um, well, I can't figure you guys out, exactly. The way Ran handles that sword, and you, with that wire, and, now … well, you're really good at that," he said, nodding his head toward Yohji to indicate the blonde's current activity.
"Hmmm," Yohji muttered, his face screwed into an expression of deep concentration as he pulled one set of stitches into a tiny knot. He had placed all the necessary medical supplies on the table in front of Aya, and he leaned around the redhead's shoulder to survey them.
"Hand me that one," he said after a moment, using his scissors to point to a long, slightly curved needle. "And, more sutures, too," he added.
Aya's hand paused over the needle Yohji had indicated. Finally, he sighed, frowning, "I … I don't like that one."
Yohji rolled his eyes toward the ceiling, a "why the hell me" expression clearly written in them, barely visible over the rims of his sunglasses. He slapped Aya lightly on the back of the head, eliciting a scowl from the younger man, and said, "What the hell does it matter? It's not like you're gonna feel it, anyhow … unless you dawdle and let the anesthetic wear off. I still have quite a few to go. Just hand me the damn needle."
Aya's eyes narrowed in irritation, and he muttered, in a stubborn tone, "No. That one … it pulls too much. It feels icky. Use another one."
"Look," Yohji sighed irritably, "who the hell is driving this bus, anyhow? None of the others will close these next few up as well … they're too big because you keep pulling the damn stitches out. As it is, you're lucky to get away with just a few scars … if they don't get infected again. If you don't like the way I'm doing this, then I'll walk away right now, and you can sew them up yourself."
Aya huffed angrily, but he signaled his defeat by silently handing Yohji the requested needle. The tall blonde took the offered instrument without a word, but he gave Hank an eyebrows-raised look of triumph and a crooked grin over the top of Aya's head. Hank ducked behind his hand to hide his smile when Aya gave him a narrow-eyed glare that seemed to promise a slow, painful death. The Texan didn't want to laugh at his friend's predicament, but he couldn't help it. For some reason, it just struck him as funny. These two bickered constantly, and, when they started in on one of these routines, they sounded like a couple of schoolgirls squabbling over one thing or another. Hank had seen these men in action, though. He still didn't know exactly who or what they were, but he knew enough to realize such a description couldn't be further from the truth.
Yohji cleared his throat, bringing Hank's attention back to the two men across from him. "Sutures, please," he commanded, slightly nudging the back of Aya's head with his elbow and holding one hand, palm upward, around the redhead's shoulder and out in front of his face.
Aya frowned again, but silently dropped the requested item onto Yohji's open palm.
As the tall blonde started threading the suture through the needle, squinting in order to accomplish his task without removing his sunglasses, he muttered under his breath, "Feels icky. What the fuck does that mean? Just when I start to have a little respect for you, you come up with something like that. "Feels icky". … Geez. You wouldn't even have to worry about it if you'd stayed inside and rested like I told you to. What the hell were you doing out there, anyhow, playing around with that damn sword? And, what the hell were you thinking --- jumping after it like that? You should have just let it get washed over. You could get another one, but what're we supposed to do to keep you from drowning? Throw ourselves overboard after you?" He sighed softly, and finished, in a barely audible tone, "Idiot."
Now it was Aya's turn to roll his eyes toward the ceiling. "You sound like an old woman," he said, with a sneer and a short, little laugh.
"Oh, yeah?" Yohji replied, "Well, you whine like a little girl … "feels icky". What kind of idiot stunt was that … with the sword?" He paused, and then added, in a softer voice, "You scared me."
"I know," Aya replied. His voice was soft, barely audible, yet, still, it was loud enough to carry to both of the men in the room with him. "I … sorry. It … it's important to me," he mumbled, a faint blush traveling across his face.
Yohji paused for a moment, his hands hovering in mid-stitch. He stared at the back of Aya's head, as if he couldn't believe what he'd just heard the swordsman say. Finally, he shrugged, and, in almost the same tone of voice Aya had used, said, "I know," before continuing his work.
After a few more stitches, Yohji looked back toward Hank and said, in an attempt to pick up the earlier conversation, which had been interrupted by his bickering with Aya, "You were saying?"
"Oh, uh …," Hank stammered, "Well, it's … uh … it's just that you're really good at that. It's surprising … you know, for a florist." He emphasized the word "florist" to let his two companions know that he had at least figured out what they didn't do for a living.
"Yeah, well, I get a lot of practice," Yohji replied, in a flippant tone of voice, as he tried to avoid Hank's implied question, "You know … sewing up certain people who seem to constantly get into trouble."
"We're not florists," Aya said in a flat voice. He looked Hank directly in the eye, without blinking or wavering. The Texan could see emotion there, but couldn't read exactly what it was.
"Aya," Yohji warned softly.
"No," Aya replied, still staring directly into Hank's eyes. "He's in this, too. He deserves to know the truth."
Yohji didn't reply, but he paused briefly in his work to stare at Hank for a moment over the top of Aya's head. Shrugging, the blonde resumed stitching.
"What … what are you?" Hank asked, hesitantly. He had been wondering about these guys for a while, but, now, when it seemed he would finally get the answers he was searching for, he wasn't sure he really wanted to know.
Aya sighed and looked down at the table, unable to meet Hank's eyes any longer. "We … we're common murderers. Nothing else," he said, softly, unable to hide the note of shame and regret that crept into his voice. "We work for an organization called Kritiker, and we kill people for them."
Hank stared, open-mouthed, at his two companions. He had known there was something about these guys, but this … he just couldn't believe it. Yohji, who was generous, and always had a joke or a smile to lighten the mood; Ran, who was quiet and shy, who always seemed angry, but was really gentle; Ken, who was so good at sports and loved kids; Omi, who was so smart and seemed to have such a bright future. All of them were killers? He tried to picture it, but he couldn't. He just couldn't believe it. His mind told him it wasn't true, that it couldn't be true. The men he'd come to know and care about over the past few months just couldn't be cold-blooded killers; he just knew they wouldn't be able to take another person's life. They were too good for that.
Suddenly, his mind dredged up the memory of that rainy night, so many months ago, when he had first met Yohji in that dark alley. He could still see the cold hatred that had been in the tall blonde's eyes as he'd held the knife to his throat and whispered, "Now, why don't you tell me why I shouldn't just cut your throat right here? But, talk fast, because I hate being out in the rain, and I'm already in a bad mood." Once that memory hit him, Hank knew he wouldn't be able to deny it any longer. It was true; these guys were killers.
Aya had been watching Hank carefully from under the long bangs that hid his eyes from view. Once he saw the signs of acceptance cross the dark-haired man's face, he took a deep breath and continued with the rest of his story, "The man … who took your daughter … his name is Schuldich. He works for an assassin group called Schwarz. They work for some of the people we hunt down for Kritiker. He … took your daughter because of … me. He wants revenge … for something I did, and he took Keiko to force you into giving him information so that he could get to me. So … this … all the trouble you've suffered … it's my fault."
Hank stared at Aya, not sure how he should respond. The redhead had always been his friend, had never seemed cold, distant, or untouchable to him, but, now, Hank suddenly felt a gap widen between them. He realized it was caused by Aya pulling his emotions and humanity back within himself, and he wondered if this was what it was like all the time for the three men who lived with him, who cared for the redhead, and, yet, never got to truly befriend him. Hank felt like Aya needed something from him, some kind of contact, as a reassurance he wasn't alone in the world. Suddenly, the man sitting in front of him, who always seemed so strong and capable, appeared to be nothing more than a fragile, vulnerable child.
Before he realized what he was doing, Hank reached across the table, placing his hand on top of Aya's, and said, "That's … that's not true, Ran. I … I didn't have to do what I did. I could have come to you … to any of you for help, but I chose to try to handle things on my own. None of this trouble is your fault, at least as far as I'm concerned. I made the wrong decisions … the wrong choices. No one's responsible for that except me. And, it almost got you killed! I … I wouldn't have ever wanted that. I … owe you … so much. You're the reason I was able to put my life back together … able to hope that, one day, I could be the kind of father my Keiko needed. I … I never thought that guy…" Hank's voice trailed off, choked by emotion.
Much to Hank's surprise, Aya didn't draw away from the physical contact. The redhead finally looked up, into Hank's eyes, and gently squeezed his hand as he said, "It's all right. How could you know?"
There was a long pause, and the silence seemed to become heavy and uncomfortable, until Yohji finally broke it by prodding Aya in the back of the head and ordering, "Tell him the rest."
"There isn't anything else," Aya said. His tone was a warning for the blonde to stay silent.
"Yes, there is," Yohji started.
Aya cut him off with a hissed warning, "Yohji!"
"No!" Yohji snapped. He yanked on one of the stitches to give emphasis to his words, causing Aya to jump slightly. "Sorry," he mumbled. "Look. You're the one who said he deserves to know. If you're not gonna tell him the whole story, I am."
He paused, to give Aya a chance to continue, but, when he was met with nothing more than stony silence from his companion, he took a breath, and, never looking away from his suturing, said, "The organization we work for … well, used to work for … is hunting us. They're after Aya, really, but I kind of invited myself along for the ride. This guy never could get himself out of trouble, anyhow." He smiled when he heard Aya chuckle softly in response to his little joke, and then continued, "They decided to retire him from service, and … well, let's just say that no one really ever "retires" from what we do. You're either with Kritiker, or you're against them … and heaven help you if it's the latter." He looked up at Hank and gave the Texan a devilish grin, "So … that's why we're all here … livin' large and in charge on this boat."
Hank couldn't help but laugh softly at Yohji's little joke. The blonde definitely had a way of defusing a tense situation. He was glad he finally knew the truth about them. Knowing what they truly did for a living didn't change the way he felt. They were still his friends.
Aya's quiet voice broke into Hank's thoughts, "We will get Keiko back."
Hank smiled in response, although it was a worried, tense expression. "I know." He drummed his fingers on top of the table for a few moments. "Oh!" he exclaimed, just remembering the papers he'd brought back from town, "The papers! I almost forgot." He slid them across the table toward Aya, "Here."
Aya leaned forward to grab the newspapers, completely forgetting Yohji was still stitching up the cuts on his back.
"Hey!" the blonde yelped, as he jerked forward in an effort to keep up with Aya's movement. "Be still! I'm working here, OK?"
Aya sneered, "You're taking too long."
"Rude!" Yohji exclaimed in a tone of mock hurt, "You can't rush perfection, my friend."
Aya just shook his head and opened the newspaper at the top of the stack Hank had pushed toward him. He flipped directly to the classified ads, completely ignoring Yohji's grumbling, and began to read in silence. Yohji finished making his last knot, sighing in relief that the job was finally almost done.
"OK," he said, sitting down on the bench next to Aya. "All done, except for that," he nodded toward the swordsman's arm, which had been cut earlier by the wire.
Yohji leaned forward slightly and began to carefully unwind the bandage from around Aya's arm, peering closely at it as he worked. He had been right about the wire cut. Once the danger of Aya being swept overboard had passed, Yohji had immediately removed the wire, which had turned the rather small cut into a series of three large, parallel, gaping tears in the redhead's upper arm. While the cut had barely bled when it was initially made, once he had removed the wire, it had bled profusely. The bandage wrapped around Aya's arm was stained dark red, and it was the second one Yohji had applied since they had come inside.
The blonde squinted at the wound, poking it gently, and frowned. "This one looks pretty bad," he muttered, feeling vaguely guilty at the thought that he had inflicted it. "Looks like the bleeding's stopped … mostly. I thought leaving it till last so that the bleeding could stop was the best choice, but … maybe I should have done it first," he said, a note of uncertainty creeping into his voice.
Aya looked up from his newspaper long enough to flick his eyes briefly over Yohji's face. "It's OK. It'll be OK," he said softly, giving the blonde one of his rare, shy smiles.
Yohji didn't know why, but Aya's words, as always, made him feel better. He nodded at his friend in response, and, as Aya ducked his head down once again, to resume reading the paper, he carefully administered a local anesthetic and began to sew the wound closed.
****************************************************************
"Find anything?" Yohji asked, as he walked back into the galley.
Aya, who was still sitting at the table, reading through the classified ads in the stack of newspapers, looked up briefly and shook his head in response to Yohji's question.
Yohji sighed and watched Aya for a couple of moments. He had finished sewing up the redhead's wounds about thirty minutes ago, and, after bandaging Aya's injuries and cleaning up their medical supplies, he had retreated to his cabin. He had hoped Aya would do likewise, but he realized now he shouldn't have expected anything less than the normal, stubborn, "Aya" behavior he was used to seeing from the swordsman.
"Here," he said, sitting down at the table across from Aya. He held out a sweatshirt as he said, "At least put this on. You've gotta be freezing."
Aya looked at him for a moment, almost as if he had just realized Yohji was there, before taking the sweatshirt. He shrugged into it slowly, wincing as his new stitches pulled painfully when he tugged the shirt over his head.
"Thanks," he said, turning his attention back to the paper almost immediately, "I was sorta cold."
"Stubborn," Yohji said, reaching out to take one of the papers off of Aya's stack. "Let me help you look."
Just as he opened his paper to the classifieds, Aya said, "Never mind. I think I just found it."
He handed Yohji the newspaper he'd just been reading, pointing to an ad with his index finger. Yohji followed Aya's hand with his eyes and saw the following:
Lost: Red Abyssinian kitten. 126 S. Nekko St. Ask for "Keiko".
Yohji looked up to meet Aya's steady gaze. "Looks like this is it," he agreed, with a grim smile.
Warnings: Bad Language. Violence. Shounen-ai (implied)
Summary: Yohji and a critically injured Aya find themselves drummed out of Weiss and on the run from Kritiker. Against this backdrop, they must locate and retrieve something very precious to the man who betrayed Aya ... a man Aya still calls his friend, despite all that has passed between them. When their options run out, the boys have no choice but to undertake a foolhardy mission that will end up putting Aya at Schuldich's mercy. Will our kittens be able to extract themselves from this mess and return to Weiss? Or will Schuldich get his revenge, after all?
Legal Stuff: As always, this story is intended to express one fan's genuine appreciation of Weiss Kreuz and its characters. It is just for fun and not for profit. If you have any rights in the anime described here and find the posting of this fanfiction offensive or harmful, please contact me, and I will be happy to remove it.
Author's Note: Story #3 in the "Nowhere Man" trilogy. Story #1: Nowhere Man. Story #2: Betrayal
Chapter 7
Yohji stood in the doorway of the pilot house watching Aya, who was practicing on the deck. The tall blonde leaned against one side of the door frame, a coffee cup clenched in one hand, his free arm wrapped around his stomach, and a small frown on his face. His eyes followed the complicated, twisting, zigzag path Aya traveled across the deck, as he executed one complex practice pattern after another. It was cold, and a strong wind battered the yacht from side-to-side, pushing large whitecaps up against the boat until water came over the sides to flow across the deck. Every few seconds, another loud crash would herald the arrival of more water. Gallons upon gallons washed over the deck, eddying and flowing around Aya, sometimes only ankle-deep, but, at other times, coming as high as his knees before rolling off the other side of the yacht and back into the ocean. The deck was wet and slick, and the footing was treacherous. Yohji was afraid Aya was either going to slip and fall over the railing, or a particularly large wave was going to sweep him off the deck. He took another sip of coffee and frowned again, wishing the redhead would just come back inside. Still, Yohji knew he'd never convince Aya to do that, so he hovered and worried silently in the pilot house door, tensed and prepared to go to the redhead's rescue, should the need arise. It wasn't nearly satisfactory to the tall blonde, but he knew, under the circumstances, it was the best he could do.
Yohji mentally clicked off the number of days they'd been aboard the boat. He figured it had to be somewhere around mid January. He was rather surprised, as Christmas seemed to have completely passed them by, unnoticed. Yohji took another sip of coffee and decided Christmas had just gotten lost in amongst everything else that was going on. He wondered if Omi and Ken had done anything to celebrate the holiday --- not that any of them really believed in or made a big deal about Christmas. He hadn't ever thought about it, but he figured they had all come to the inescapable conclusion Christmas had no meaning for them and no place in their lives. After all, the holiday was all about redemption, a commodity that was sadly unavailable to them, considering the type of work they did. It seemed it was truly impossible to wash away some sins.
At any rate, the New Year would be upon them in a matter of weeks. He silently wondered what year it was. When he was a child, his mom had told him he'd have good luck all year whenever the year for his sign came around. Of course, he was beyond believing in such fantasies now. Long ago, he had concluded there were only two certainties in the universe: anything that could go wrong would, and everyone was going to die … some sooner than others. He didn't believe in luck any more --- unless it was bad. Besides, he couldn't even remember what sign he was. Still, as he watched Aya twist and turn his way across the deck and then back again, he silently wished this year belonged to the redhead's sign. That guy needed all the help he could get … you know, just in case good luck really did exist.
Aya had only felt strong enough to get out of bed for the past three or four days. Before that, while he was still bedridden, he and Yohji had surreptitiously cruised various Internet chat rooms and posting boards, in the hopes of finding a lead on Schuldich and Hank's daughter. At first, Yohji had been nervous about taking to the 'Net. They hadn't had any trouble with Kritiker after the organization's first, failed attempt at retiring Aya. Yohji thought he should have been relieved about that, but, oddly enough, he wasn't. Instead of making him feel safer and more relaxed, Kritiker's conspicuous absence made him more edgy and nervous. It was just too easy. Kritiker was huge; it was everywhere, and it should have been harder for them to hide. It should have been harder for them to move about the city without being detected, especially considering that neither of them had done anything to really change their appearance. Other than the fact Aya's hair had grown out to mid-back length during his recovery and he had decided not to cut it, they hadn't even gone to the trouble of changing the way they wore their hair. Still, they had moved around freely, without being recognized or spotted by the many undercover Kritiker agents he knew had to be combing the city for them. In Yohji's book, it was a case of something being too good to believe, and it made him suspicious and jumpy. Besides, he had that rule: anything that could go wrong would, and, falling back on that universal truth, he couldn't help wondering when their run of blissfully good luck would end. So, when Aya had suggested they start cruising the Internet to supplement their search for the German, Yohji had protested, thinking it would alert Kritiker to their presence. Aya had only sighed and shaken his head in a sad, little gesture, replying: "Don't you have any faith in me, Yohji?"
Yohji still remembered how he hadn't really had any response to Aya's question. It had surprised him, the sad, melancholy way in which Aya had said it --- almost like a joke, but, then again, not quite joking. It wasn't a case of not having faith. He trusted and believed in Aya; otherwise, he would never have placed his life in the redhead's hands so many times. But, he was scared for Aya, even though he hadn't known how to say it. Instead, he had done the next-best thing. He had acquired a laptop from Smitty so they could search the Internet from the yacht, which was already rigged up with the appropriate connections.
All this computer crap was mumbo-jumbo to Yohji. He had always thought of himself as an "action guy", whereas people like Omi --- people who were a lot smarter than him --- were the "background guys", the "planning guys", the "intel. guys" … whatever you wanted to call them. He had always subconsciously thought of Aya as an "action guy", too. Who knew why; maybe it was because of the strange connection he felt to the quiet man, which led him to believe they were more alike than it seemed on the surface. But, after watching Aya for a few minutes, Yohji had had to concede that, either the redhead was also an "intel guy", or Omi had taught him very well. Aya moved through one chat room and posting board after another, leaving messages that would mean nothing to the casual observer, but that Schuldich would be certain to notice, while deftly taking steps to conceal his presence and location.
So far, they hadn't gotten any hits on their postings. They had been checking the classified ads in the papers on a daily basis, too. In the past, Schwarz had sent challenges to them that way, and, for whatever reason, the classifieds were Brad Crawford's favorite method for communicating with his operatives. Even though it appeared Schuldich was on this rampage alone, it had seemed likely that the German might fall back on familiar means of communication. At any rate, none of them had considered checking the classifieds to be a waste of time. So far, they hadn't had any luck in that area, either, so, for now, all they could do was wait.
But, sitting, waiting, and doing nothing had begun to take its toll on all of them. Hank had been hit the hardest, which was only natural, since his daughter was missing. She had been gone for at least a month now, with no sign of her location and no new communication from her kidnapper. The normally-gregarious Texan had become more and more withdrawn. He spent hours alone in the galley or pilot house, and, when he was with Yohji or Aya, he barely made conversation. Yohji knew the man hadn't been sleeping well, either. He hadn't noticed it while Aya was down, because his attention had been so preoccupied with the redhead's needs, but, now that Aya was better, he had noticed Hank's pale, ashy-looking skin, the grayish pallor, and the huge, dark circles under his eyes. Worse yet, the Texan had started drinking again. He'd been sober ever since taking the job with them at the flower shop, but, within the past couple of days, Yohji had found him out on deck on more than one occasion, drunk off his ass. He hadn't told Aya, thinking that the redhead hadn't noticed and not wanting to worry him unduly. But, last night, Aya had approached him and said, in that soft, gentle way of his, that he thought Hank was in trouble. When Yohji had asked for additional details, Aya had told him he knew Hank was drinking. It seemed Yohji hadn't been the only one who had had the privilege of dragging the drunken Texan off the yacht's deck. They had both made a point of reassuring their companion, on an almost daily basis, that they weren't giving up, and that they would get his daughter back, unharmed. Hank always smiled his thanks and said he believed them and trusted them, but, still, Yohji didn't think the reassurances did much good. It was his daughter, after all; how could the man not worry?
But, at the moment, Hank wasn't his only problem. The waiting around and helpless feeling that accompanied it were starting to get to Aya, too. The redhead was struggling to maintain the confident, slightly-icy demeanor he always employed in dealing with all things Weiss, and, on the surface, he seemed calm, cool, collected, and totally in-control. But, Yohji knew Aya a lot better than that. He could tell the attitude was just a façade. Inside, Aya was terrified they wouldn't be able to get the little girl back, but the redhead was determined not to let it show in front of Hank. Not only that, but, in that special, completely self-destructive way he had of dealing with such things, Aya had drawn all of the guilt over Keiko's abduction, their current situation with Kritiker, and Schuldich's vendetta around himself like a shroud. Yohji could tell the redhead was, as always, determined to shoulder everyone's guilt, and it seemed to be eating away at him, little by little. Yohji figured that was what had driven him up onto the deck with his sword, in the first place.
He didn't have any idea how long Aya had been out here. He had awakened early, and found the redhead's cabin empty, except for Bubba. Aya must have locked the dog in there to keep him off of the deck, and Bubba was not at all happy about it. After barely managing to shove the whining, drooling animal back into Aya's cabin, followed by a quick search of the yacht, he had located Aya here, silhouetted against the pinkish-gray, early morning sky, working through practice routine after practice routine against a backdrop of spraying salt water. Normally, the redhead was incredibly perceptive, but Aya hadn't noticed Yohji's presence yet. The blonde tried not to let it worry him, and he rationalized Aya's lapse by attributing it to several factors: Aya had yet to recover from his injuries, he was completely lost in the rhythm and flow of his sword work, and the waves crashing against the yacht created an almost-deafening roar, which blocked any outside noise. From the looks of him, the tall blonde figured Aya must have been out here for a while, perhaps even a good part of the night.
Even from this distance and in the dim half-light of early morning, Yohji could see that Aya's hair was dark and slick from sweat and ocean spray. For the most part, it was plastered to his head, although he wore it loose, and the ends whipped around him as he twisted and turned, following behind the flow of his body and sword. He had, apparently, swept his bangs out of the way with his hand at some point during his work out. They were slicked back in a rather messy tangle, away from his face. Although it was cold, Aya wore only a pair of Yohji's dark-colored sweat pants, which were way too baggy on him and hung loosely at his hips, and his feet were bare. With each movement, each turn, each ripple of his muscles, the sunlight glinted off the sweat and salt water coating his skin. It almost looked like he glowed with a strange, unearthly sheen.
Although they occasionally sparred together, wire against blade, Yohji had rarely seen Aya practice. The redhead was a skilled swordsman, and, despite their dangerous profession, he was still alive --- both indicators of a lot of practice time --- but, Aya hated being watched. He normally snuck off in the early morning hours to practice in solitude. On a few occasions, though, the tall blonde had surreptitiously followed Aya to the park, where he had watched, unnoticed, as the swordsman threw his mind and body into hours of rigorous training. Then, as now, Yohji had been transfixed by the redhead's graceful movements and skill with the sword, which seemed like an extension of his body. The blade flashed through the light, almost with a life of its own, but, always, inextricably, connected with Aya, and the swordsman moved quickly and easily through one practice routine after another, seemingly oblivious to the deadly weapon he held. As he whirled from one movement to another, twisting, first to the right, then to the left, twirling the blade around his head, then, around his shoulders, and then, with only a slight shift in weight from one foot to the other, around his lower body, the weapon ceased being an object of death. Instead, it was a ribbon of light flashing around Aya. It was graceful and beautiful --- a delicately balanced, deadly dance between man and blade, and, in that ruthless beauty, Yohji found it easy to forget how Aya's sword cut through people so viciously and easily, severing heads and body parts, ending lives almost effortlessly. When he saw the redhead like this, Yohji found he could almost believe Aya was from some other world --- he was too graceful, too deadly-beautiful, to be human. Not that he believed in such things, but, if he had, Yohji would have thought the redhead looked like an angel --- a glittering, graceful, ruthless messenger from some great beyond. The only things spoiling the perfection of the scene were the wounds criss-crossing Aya's back. They were still red and irritated from the recent infection, and some of them had torn open during his practice session, sending tiny rivulets of red running down his back, where they mixed with the sweat and were washed away by the salt spray. Also, Aya's steps, although still graceful, were halting and jerky, as opposed to the smooth, flowing movements he would normally have employed, probably due to the pain from his most recent injuries.
The sound of Bubba's dog tags clinking together heralded Hank's approach. The Texan stomped heavily up the stairs leading from the galley and cabins into the pilot house, Bubba trotting happily at his heels.
"Damn," Hank whispered, as he approached Yohji from behind.
Yohji turned to face Hank, acknowledging the Texan's presence and greeting him with a slight nod. He bent to scratch behind Bubba's ears, mumbling, "So, you finally get let out?" He returned to his previous spot in the doorway, moving aside slightly, so that there was enough room for Hank to join him.
"Oh, yeah," Hank replied as he moved forward to join Yohji, "I … uh … heard him whining inside, so I took him with me … you know, on the supply run. Hope that was OK."
Yohji nodded. "Yeah, it's fine. I think Aya just didn't want him out on the deck while he was practicing."
Hank moved into the doorway, carefully placing his body so that he blocked Bubba, who was whining and pushing against his legs, from running out onto the deck. The Texan leaned on the opposite side of the door frame, clutching his own cup of coffee in one hand, and said, softly, "I … I never knew … he could do that."
Yohji simply shrugged in response.
The two men stood in silence, watching as Aya twisted and whirled through yet another routine, traveling from one side of the deck to the other, in a complicated pattern of swirls, twists, and turns. He lunged, twirled, and cut the air with a precision that was beautiful in both its grace and its deadliness. Wrapped in the mist and spray from the ocean, it was as if his feet never touched the deck.
"He … looks like … an angel," Hank muttered, almost under his breath.
Yohji snorted, "Yeah … angel of death." He couldn't quite keep the sarcastic note out of his voice, but he added, in a softer tone, "He really is something to watch, isn't he? He's probably one of the best in Japan, not that anyone will ever know. Just to look at him, you'd never guess, huh?"
Hank nodded his agreement. "How long you think he's been out there?" he asked, around a mouthful of coffee.
Yohji shrugged, "Found him here when I woke up. From the looks of it, maybe the whole damn night. Who the hell knows?"
"He's bleeding," Hank commented, as he noticed, for the first time, that Aya had torn open several of the wounds on his back, as well as the stitches on his side from the recent gunshot wound. Whenever the water receded enough, he could see red spatters and droplets all across the boat's deck, clearly marking Aya's various paths.
"Yeah," Yohji replied, draining the last of his coffee.
"Looks like a lot," Hank said, never taking his eyes off of Aya, who was still unaware of their presence.
"Yeah," Yohji said again, his voice flat and emotionless.
"Don't you think he should come in?" Hank asked, turning an incredulous, questioning stare toward Yohji. "I mean … what are you gonna do about it?"
Bubba whined, apparently seconding Hank's opinion.
Yohji shrugged and said, with a tired sigh, "Fish him out of the ocean if he falls in." In response to Hank's continued stare, Yohji explained, "He won't come in until he's totally exhausted, unable to move. I've seen him like this before. There's nothing I can do, except wait for that to happen … and hope he doesn't fall overboard."
"But, why?" Hank asked.
Yohji shrugged and replied, "Waiting … not being able to do anything … anger … guilt. He's convinced himself this whole thing is his fault."
As the blonde spoke, it looked like Aya had started to reach his limit. Yohji tensed and moved slightly away from the door frame as Aya slipped to one knee, finally on the verge of exhaustion. The redhead caught himself, though, and struggled back into a standing position, using the sword, which had embedded in the wood of the deck, as a crutch. After pausing for a couple of seconds --- panting, slumped over, hands on knees, and head hanging --- he started the last, most complicated, routine again. Yohji sighed in frustration and sank back into his waiting position, still tensed to move at a second's notice, if necessary.
"Anyhow," Yohji continued, "when he's like this … there's no talking to him." He paused for a moment before muttering, "Not that you can ever really tell him anything."
"But he's gonna hurt himself," Hank said, concern edging into his voice.
"He already has," Yohji replied, grimly. "Some of those cuts are new." He glanced over at Hank for a brief moment, before turning his attention back to Aya. "You get the supplies OK?"
"Uh … yeah," Hank replied. "I … um … I got the papers, too. I left them in the galley."
Yohji nodded.
Aya slipped twice more, finally falling to his hands and knees, and the sword clattered to the deck, just out of easy reach. Aya managed to move to a sitting position, but he didn't reach for the sword right away. It seemed to be all he could do just to hold himself fairly upright, and he sat on the bloody, cold, wet, deck, shoulders slumped forward, breathing heavily.
"Well," Yohji commented, setting his empty coffee cup on the nearest flat surface, "looks like he's finally done."
Yohji stood up and leaned away from the side of the door frame on which he'd been resting, apparently intending to move out onto the deck to retrieve Aya. Before the tall blonde could move forward, a freakishly huge wave slammed against the side of the yacht. It was like a wall of water moving toward them. It towered over the boat for a moment that seemed frozen in time, dwarfing the yacht and covering it in shadow, until, finally, the wave broke and tumbled down with the force of a falling building. Water that was at least waist-high washed over the boat and splashed forcefully against Aya's body. The weight and force of it drove him to the deck, and the wave's sweep caught the sword and sent it spinning toward the deck's edge. Aya knew he had to stay on his feet in order to stay alive, and, despite his exhaustion, he struggled to stand. For a fraction of a second, he glanced from the sword, which was quickly tumbling its way toward the ocean's blue oblivion, to the pilot house, which offered him sanctuary and safety from the water that seemed intent on tossing him overboard, along with his sword. He could only reach one. Then, just like that, years of discipline and training won out, and he leapt through the crashing wave, riding it toward the deck's edge in an attempt to rescue the sword before the water dragged it overboard.
"Fuck," Yohji hissed, instantly dashing forward. "Hank, hang onto that damn dog."
Bubba had already started struggling to get to Aya. Hank quickly grabbed his collar, and barely managed to keep the dog from flying through the door by throwing all of his weight against the animal. He ended up sitting on the floor as Yohji pushed past him to get out onto the deck. All he could do was hang on for dear life and pray he was strong enough to hold onto Bubba, who had become a mass of frantic, frenzied energy. The dog's nails made scrabbling sounds as he dug gouges into the floor during his struggle for freedom, and he alternated between panicked whining, angry snarling, and frenzied barking. Within moments, Hank and everything within arm's reach in the pilot house was liberally coated with dog slobber, and Hank silently hoped Bubba wouldn't decide to turn around and attack him in a bid for freedom.
As Yohji moved carefully out into the water, he spotted a towel lying close to the pilot house wall. Aya had probably brought it out here with him, to use after he finished his workout, and, by some miracle, it hadn't been caught in the huge wave. The blonde felt almost stupidly grateful for this small bit of good luck --- the first in what seemed like a very long time. He picked up the towel as he passed it, immediately tearing it into two halves, which he wound around his hands as he waded further out into the waist-high deluge pounding the deck.
The tall blonde positioned himself in the wave's shallowest part, simultaneously unleashing a wire from his watch. The thin metal seemed to sing as it sliced through air and then water, and Yohji held his breath, silently praying, to anyone or anything that might listen, for the weapon to fly straight and true. This was one time when he couldn't afford to miss; he wouldn't get another chance.
Aya had managed to grab his sword, but he got caught in the wave's backwash. He was too exhausted to swim free, and the water's forward momentum was already tumbling him toward the deck's edge. The wire cut straight through the water, like a hot knife through butter. It reached Aya and twined around his arm just as the water's force finally swept him over the edge and toward the silent, icy deep. Aya was lost from view within the crashing, tumbling wave, and Yohji wasn't sure whether or not his aim had been true. He immediately felt the wire pull taut, and he sent up another silent prayer --- this time asking to have caught his teammate and not the deck railing. The tall blonde immediately retreated back a few steps, into the shadow of the pilot house, in search of more solid footing and some shelter from the water that continued to crash and tumble over the boat, mercilessly pounding everything in its path. Yohji had hoped to drag Aya toward him and away from the edge of the deck, but the wave was like a living beast, and it refused to relinquish its prey so easily. After briefly struggling against its force, Yohji realized all he could do was hang on for the precious few seconds it would take for the wave to finish breaking and wash completely over the boat.
It all happened in a matter of seconds, almost too quickly for Hank to even follow the action with his eyes. After the huge wave broke, the wind subsided, and the water's roar gave way to an almost eerie silence, which was punctuated only by the sound of smaller whitecaps slapping against the sides of the yacht and water running off of the deck in little streams. The wave's force had swept everything except Aya off the deck. Luckily, Yohji's aim had been accurate, despite the poor visibility, and the redhead was sitting about halfway between the middle of the deck and its edge. He didn't seem too much the worse for wear. The wire had gone loose almost immediately, once the water had receded, but it was still wrapped around Aya's arm. It had inflicted a deep cut, and, although the wound wasn't bleeding yet, Yohji knew it would turn into a fairly good-sized gash when he removed the wire. Aya didn't try to free himself of Yohji's weapon. Instead, he sat perfectly still for several minutes, hunched over and panting heavily, as if he needed all his energy just to breathe, until he started coughing up some of the sea water he had swallowed. After another few minutes, he shook the water out of his hair, and ran a shaking hand through the soaked, red mass, slicking it back from his face.
Yohji hadn't realized he'd been holding his breath all this time, but, when Aya started moving around, indicating he wasn't injured, the tall blonde let it out in one long, heartfelt sigh of relief. He looked over his shoulder at Hank, and gave the Texan a relieved, crooked grin, as he commented, "Damn. My first deep-sea fishing experience, and look what I caught!"
Hank couldn't believe Yohji could joke at a time like this, after what they had just gone through. He had thought Ran was a goner, for sure, and he'd been too petrified to do anything more than hang on to the stupid dog. But, the tall blonde's sunglasses had partially come off, hanging from just one ear so that they were slightly askew on his face, and he wore a slightly miffed, yet slightly surprised, expression. He looked so funny that Hank found he was unable to suppress his laughter. The blonde shrugged and gave Hank another crooked grin before he straightened his sunglasses and walked out across the deck.
Yohji crossed the deck in a few long strides, and squatted on his heels next to Aya, who was doubled-over, still coughing and spitting up water. He gently rubbed the younger man's back, careful to avoid the re-opened, bleeding wounds, and asked, "You OK?"
Aya managed to stop coughing and retching long enough to glare at him. He shrugged away from Yohji's hand with a hissed, "Leave me the fuck alone."
Yohji sighed, rolled his eyes, and muttered, "Maybe I should throw you back."
"Come on," he said, as, with another sigh, he pulled Aya to his feet and shoved him roughly toward the pilot house. "Get down to the galley so I can sew those cuts up again," he snapped.
Aya didn't protest. On shaking legs, he stumbled silently toward the pilot house, and then, down the stairs leading to the galley.
***************************************************
About twenty minutes later, Hank, Yohji, Aya, and Bubba had all congregated in the small galley. As usual, the big dog had wedged himself into the small space under the table, where he rested his head on Aya's feet. Occasionally, he would raise his head slightly with a whine, so that he could look adoringly at his favorite human companion. Aya sat on one of the attached benches, his back to the door, and Yohji stood behind him, patiently sewing up the cuts on his back, some of which had opened during his practice session, some that had opened during the struggle against the wave, and some that were newly inflicted by Aya's overzealous sword work. Hank sat across from them and watched, mystified by Yohji's quick, deft hand motions.
"What is it?" Yohji asked, when he looked up from his work to find Hank staring at him.
"Um … nothing," Hank replied. He stared down in embarrassment at his hands, which he had placed, palms down, flat against the table in front of him. "It's just … um, well, I can't figure you guys out, exactly. The way Ran handles that sword, and you, with that wire, and, now … well, you're really good at that," he said, nodding his head toward Yohji to indicate the blonde's current activity.
"Hmmm," Yohji muttered, his face screwed into an expression of deep concentration as he pulled one set of stitches into a tiny knot. He had placed all the necessary medical supplies on the table in front of Aya, and he leaned around the redhead's shoulder to survey them.
"Hand me that one," he said after a moment, using his scissors to point to a long, slightly curved needle. "And, more sutures, too," he added.
Aya's hand paused over the needle Yohji had indicated. Finally, he sighed, frowning, "I … I don't like that one."
Yohji rolled his eyes toward the ceiling, a "why the hell me" expression clearly written in them, barely visible over the rims of his sunglasses. He slapped Aya lightly on the back of the head, eliciting a scowl from the younger man, and said, "What the hell does it matter? It's not like you're gonna feel it, anyhow … unless you dawdle and let the anesthetic wear off. I still have quite a few to go. Just hand me the damn needle."
Aya's eyes narrowed in irritation, and he muttered, in a stubborn tone, "No. That one … it pulls too much. It feels icky. Use another one."
"Look," Yohji sighed irritably, "who the hell is driving this bus, anyhow? None of the others will close these next few up as well … they're too big because you keep pulling the damn stitches out. As it is, you're lucky to get away with just a few scars … if they don't get infected again. If you don't like the way I'm doing this, then I'll walk away right now, and you can sew them up yourself."
Aya huffed angrily, but he signaled his defeat by silently handing Yohji the requested needle. The tall blonde took the offered instrument without a word, but he gave Hank an eyebrows-raised look of triumph and a crooked grin over the top of Aya's head. Hank ducked behind his hand to hide his smile when Aya gave him a narrow-eyed glare that seemed to promise a slow, painful death. The Texan didn't want to laugh at his friend's predicament, but he couldn't help it. For some reason, it just struck him as funny. These two bickered constantly, and, when they started in on one of these routines, they sounded like a couple of schoolgirls squabbling over one thing or another. Hank had seen these men in action, though. He still didn't know exactly who or what they were, but he knew enough to realize such a description couldn't be further from the truth.
Yohji cleared his throat, bringing Hank's attention back to the two men across from him. "Sutures, please," he commanded, slightly nudging the back of Aya's head with his elbow and holding one hand, palm upward, around the redhead's shoulder and out in front of his face.
Aya frowned again, but silently dropped the requested item onto Yohji's open palm.
As the tall blonde started threading the suture through the needle, squinting in order to accomplish his task without removing his sunglasses, he muttered under his breath, "Feels icky. What the fuck does that mean? Just when I start to have a little respect for you, you come up with something like that. "Feels icky". … Geez. You wouldn't even have to worry about it if you'd stayed inside and rested like I told you to. What the hell were you doing out there, anyhow, playing around with that damn sword? And, what the hell were you thinking --- jumping after it like that? You should have just let it get washed over. You could get another one, but what're we supposed to do to keep you from drowning? Throw ourselves overboard after you?" He sighed softly, and finished, in a barely audible tone, "Idiot."
Now it was Aya's turn to roll his eyes toward the ceiling. "You sound like an old woman," he said, with a sneer and a short, little laugh.
"Oh, yeah?" Yohji replied, "Well, you whine like a little girl … "feels icky". What kind of idiot stunt was that … with the sword?" He paused, and then added, in a softer voice, "You scared me."
"I know," Aya replied. His voice was soft, barely audible, yet, still, it was loud enough to carry to both of the men in the room with him. "I … sorry. It … it's important to me," he mumbled, a faint blush traveling across his face.
Yohji paused for a moment, his hands hovering in mid-stitch. He stared at the back of Aya's head, as if he couldn't believe what he'd just heard the swordsman say. Finally, he shrugged, and, in almost the same tone of voice Aya had used, said, "I know," before continuing his work.
After a few more stitches, Yohji looked back toward Hank and said, in an attempt to pick up the earlier conversation, which had been interrupted by his bickering with Aya, "You were saying?"
"Oh, uh …," Hank stammered, "Well, it's … uh … it's just that you're really good at that. It's surprising … you know, for a florist." He emphasized the word "florist" to let his two companions know that he had at least figured out what they didn't do for a living.
"Yeah, well, I get a lot of practice," Yohji replied, in a flippant tone of voice, as he tried to avoid Hank's implied question, "You know … sewing up certain people who seem to constantly get into trouble."
"We're not florists," Aya said in a flat voice. He looked Hank directly in the eye, without blinking or wavering. The Texan could see emotion there, but couldn't read exactly what it was.
"Aya," Yohji warned softly.
"No," Aya replied, still staring directly into Hank's eyes. "He's in this, too. He deserves to know the truth."
Yohji didn't reply, but he paused briefly in his work to stare at Hank for a moment over the top of Aya's head. Shrugging, the blonde resumed stitching.
"What … what are you?" Hank asked, hesitantly. He had been wondering about these guys for a while, but, now, when it seemed he would finally get the answers he was searching for, he wasn't sure he really wanted to know.
Aya sighed and looked down at the table, unable to meet Hank's eyes any longer. "We … we're common murderers. Nothing else," he said, softly, unable to hide the note of shame and regret that crept into his voice. "We work for an organization called Kritiker, and we kill people for them."
Hank stared, open-mouthed, at his two companions. He had known there was something about these guys, but this … he just couldn't believe it. Yohji, who was generous, and always had a joke or a smile to lighten the mood; Ran, who was quiet and shy, who always seemed angry, but was really gentle; Ken, who was so good at sports and loved kids; Omi, who was so smart and seemed to have such a bright future. All of them were killers? He tried to picture it, but he couldn't. He just couldn't believe it. His mind told him it wasn't true, that it couldn't be true. The men he'd come to know and care about over the past few months just couldn't be cold-blooded killers; he just knew they wouldn't be able to take another person's life. They were too good for that.
Suddenly, his mind dredged up the memory of that rainy night, so many months ago, when he had first met Yohji in that dark alley. He could still see the cold hatred that had been in the tall blonde's eyes as he'd held the knife to his throat and whispered, "Now, why don't you tell me why I shouldn't just cut your throat right here? But, talk fast, because I hate being out in the rain, and I'm already in a bad mood." Once that memory hit him, Hank knew he wouldn't be able to deny it any longer. It was true; these guys were killers.
Aya had been watching Hank carefully from under the long bangs that hid his eyes from view. Once he saw the signs of acceptance cross the dark-haired man's face, he took a deep breath and continued with the rest of his story, "The man … who took your daughter … his name is Schuldich. He works for an assassin group called Schwarz. They work for some of the people we hunt down for Kritiker. He … took your daughter because of … me. He wants revenge … for something I did, and he took Keiko to force you into giving him information so that he could get to me. So … this … all the trouble you've suffered … it's my fault."
Hank stared at Aya, not sure how he should respond. The redhead had always been his friend, had never seemed cold, distant, or untouchable to him, but, now, Hank suddenly felt a gap widen between them. He realized it was caused by Aya pulling his emotions and humanity back within himself, and he wondered if this was what it was like all the time for the three men who lived with him, who cared for the redhead, and, yet, never got to truly befriend him. Hank felt like Aya needed something from him, some kind of contact, as a reassurance he wasn't alone in the world. Suddenly, the man sitting in front of him, who always seemed so strong and capable, appeared to be nothing more than a fragile, vulnerable child.
Before he realized what he was doing, Hank reached across the table, placing his hand on top of Aya's, and said, "That's … that's not true, Ran. I … I didn't have to do what I did. I could have come to you … to any of you for help, but I chose to try to handle things on my own. None of this trouble is your fault, at least as far as I'm concerned. I made the wrong decisions … the wrong choices. No one's responsible for that except me. And, it almost got you killed! I … I wouldn't have ever wanted that. I … owe you … so much. You're the reason I was able to put my life back together … able to hope that, one day, I could be the kind of father my Keiko needed. I … I never thought that guy…" Hank's voice trailed off, choked by emotion.
Much to Hank's surprise, Aya didn't draw away from the physical contact. The redhead finally looked up, into Hank's eyes, and gently squeezed his hand as he said, "It's all right. How could you know?"
There was a long pause, and the silence seemed to become heavy and uncomfortable, until Yohji finally broke it by prodding Aya in the back of the head and ordering, "Tell him the rest."
"There isn't anything else," Aya said. His tone was a warning for the blonde to stay silent.
"Yes, there is," Yohji started.
Aya cut him off with a hissed warning, "Yohji!"
"No!" Yohji snapped. He yanked on one of the stitches to give emphasis to his words, causing Aya to jump slightly. "Sorry," he mumbled. "Look. You're the one who said he deserves to know. If you're not gonna tell him the whole story, I am."
He paused, to give Aya a chance to continue, but, when he was met with nothing more than stony silence from his companion, he took a breath, and, never looking away from his suturing, said, "The organization we work for … well, used to work for … is hunting us. They're after Aya, really, but I kind of invited myself along for the ride. This guy never could get himself out of trouble, anyhow." He smiled when he heard Aya chuckle softly in response to his little joke, and then continued, "They decided to retire him from service, and … well, let's just say that no one really ever "retires" from what we do. You're either with Kritiker, or you're against them … and heaven help you if it's the latter." He looked up at Hank and gave the Texan a devilish grin, "So … that's why we're all here … livin' large and in charge on this boat."
Hank couldn't help but laugh softly at Yohji's little joke. The blonde definitely had a way of defusing a tense situation. He was glad he finally knew the truth about them. Knowing what they truly did for a living didn't change the way he felt. They were still his friends.
Aya's quiet voice broke into Hank's thoughts, "We will get Keiko back."
Hank smiled in response, although it was a worried, tense expression. "I know." He drummed his fingers on top of the table for a few moments. "Oh!" he exclaimed, just remembering the papers he'd brought back from town, "The papers! I almost forgot." He slid them across the table toward Aya, "Here."
Aya leaned forward to grab the newspapers, completely forgetting Yohji was still stitching up the cuts on his back.
"Hey!" the blonde yelped, as he jerked forward in an effort to keep up with Aya's movement. "Be still! I'm working here, OK?"
Aya sneered, "You're taking too long."
"Rude!" Yohji exclaimed in a tone of mock hurt, "You can't rush perfection, my friend."
Aya just shook his head and opened the newspaper at the top of the stack Hank had pushed toward him. He flipped directly to the classified ads, completely ignoring Yohji's grumbling, and began to read in silence. Yohji finished making his last knot, sighing in relief that the job was finally almost done.
"OK," he said, sitting down on the bench next to Aya. "All done, except for that," he nodded toward the swordsman's arm, which had been cut earlier by the wire.
Yohji leaned forward slightly and began to carefully unwind the bandage from around Aya's arm, peering closely at it as he worked. He had been right about the wire cut. Once the danger of Aya being swept overboard had passed, Yohji had immediately removed the wire, which had turned the rather small cut into a series of three large, parallel, gaping tears in the redhead's upper arm. While the cut had barely bled when it was initially made, once he had removed the wire, it had bled profusely. The bandage wrapped around Aya's arm was stained dark red, and it was the second one Yohji had applied since they had come inside.
The blonde squinted at the wound, poking it gently, and frowned. "This one looks pretty bad," he muttered, feeling vaguely guilty at the thought that he had inflicted it. "Looks like the bleeding's stopped … mostly. I thought leaving it till last so that the bleeding could stop was the best choice, but … maybe I should have done it first," he said, a note of uncertainty creeping into his voice.
Aya looked up from his newspaper long enough to flick his eyes briefly over Yohji's face. "It's OK. It'll be OK," he said softly, giving the blonde one of his rare, shy smiles.
Yohji didn't know why, but Aya's words, as always, made him feel better. He nodded at his friend in response, and, as Aya ducked his head down once again, to resume reading the paper, he carefully administered a local anesthetic and began to sew the wound closed.
****************************************************************
"Find anything?" Yohji asked, as he walked back into the galley.
Aya, who was still sitting at the table, reading through the classified ads in the stack of newspapers, looked up briefly and shook his head in response to Yohji's question.
Yohji sighed and watched Aya for a couple of moments. He had finished sewing up the redhead's wounds about thirty minutes ago, and, after bandaging Aya's injuries and cleaning up their medical supplies, he had retreated to his cabin. He had hoped Aya would do likewise, but he realized now he shouldn't have expected anything less than the normal, stubborn, "Aya" behavior he was used to seeing from the swordsman.
"Here," he said, sitting down at the table across from Aya. He held out a sweatshirt as he said, "At least put this on. You've gotta be freezing."
Aya looked at him for a moment, almost as if he had just realized Yohji was there, before taking the sweatshirt. He shrugged into it slowly, wincing as his new stitches pulled painfully when he tugged the shirt over his head.
"Thanks," he said, turning his attention back to the paper almost immediately, "I was sorta cold."
"Stubborn," Yohji said, reaching out to take one of the papers off of Aya's stack. "Let me help you look."
Just as he opened his paper to the classifieds, Aya said, "Never mind. I think I just found it."
He handed Yohji the newspaper he'd just been reading, pointing to an ad with his index finger. Yohji followed Aya's hand with his eyes and saw the following:
Lost: Red Abyssinian kitten. 126 S. Nekko St. Ask for "Keiko".
Yohji looked up to meet Aya's steady gaze. "Looks like this is it," he agreed, with a grim smile.