WK Fic: A Good Day

[texchan]

A Good Day
(a weiss kreuz fanfiction by tex-chan)

Summary: Any day that you’re alive is a good day. It seems like a simple concept, but is it possible to accept even this simple truth when you are Weiss?

Warning: Some bad language.

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.


“Crap, I’m so freaking bored,” Yohji muttered.

The words rode out of his mouth on a stream of smoke as he sank lower in the driver’s seat. There was the almost inaudible squeak of leather rubbing against leather while he fidgeted, trying to find a comfortable position in Seven’s unyielding bucket seat. It was no use. The seat, like everything else about Seven, was built for performance -- designed to cradle and protect the driver’s body while the car buzzed along at high speeds or while it took corners on two wheels. It wasn’t meant to serve as a cushy waiting spot during a long, drawn-out stakeout, and Yohji groaned as he gave up, banging his head against the headrest in frustration and sending yet another stream of smoke toward Seven’s convertible top, which he had closed tonight because of the threat of rain.

Aya glared at him. It had been a long night, all of it spent cooped up in the car, and Aya had arrived at the thin edge of his patience. He didn’t like waiting, either. It made him feel keyed up and anxious, as if the car was closing in on him. Yohji’s nervous fidgeting wasn’t helping matters. All in all, Aya felt as if he had one nerve left, and Yohji was standing on its quickly fraying end.

“How long have we been out here, anyhow?” Yohji whined, shifting around to pull his lighter from his front pants pocket.

He tossed his spent cigarette out of the driver’s side window, but he didn’t light another. Instead, he flicked the lighter’s lid -- open, closed, open, closed, open, closed. It clicked as Yohji toyed with it, a burst of rapid-fire, staccato noise that seemed loud in the close confines of Seven’s cockpit.

“Two minutes later than the last time you asked,” Aya snapped. His hand snaked out and, before Yohji could protest, he snatched the lighter from Yohji’s fingers.

Yohji’s first instinct was to go after his pilfered property, but something in Aya’s eyes stopped him. There was a raw edge there -- something Yohji couldn’t quite explain and that, maybe, he didn’t understand. But, it was enough to remind him he was in a very small space and that his partner, at times, had a hair trigger temper. Instead, Yohji settled for glaring across the darkened interior at Aya. Aya shrugged, as if the whole thing was no big deal, and slipped the lighter into the pocket of his trench.

“Don’t lose it,” Yohji said.

“I won’t,” Aya replied.

“Seriously. That lighter was expensive. It’s my favorite one,” Yohji continued.

“I said I won’t lose it, didn’t I?” Aya snapped.

“Prick,” Yohji muttered, looking away to stare out of his window toward the building they were watching.

It was a small, unassuming house -- dark, quiet, in a nice neighborhood, and not at all the kind of place where you’d expect to find the White Hunters’ targets. Still, things aren’t always what they seem on the surface, are they? Scratch that. In Yohji’s experience, things were never what they seemed on the surface. The targets were there; he and Aya had watched the first guy go inside a couple of hours ago. Then, a few minutes later, three more men had arrived. It looked like some kind of meeting, although Yohji didn’t bother wondering about it. Kritiker told him to go in there and kill everyone, and that’s what he did. He was the hired help, plain and simple. It wasn’t up to him to figure out what the bad guys were up to … or even who the bad guys were. Even so, he almost wanted to know, this time. Maybe it would make all the waiting around easier to handle.

“How long do we have to wait out here? The guys are in there. We both saw them,” Yohji commented.

“Omi says wait, so … we wait,” Aya said, his words accompanied by a soft hiss of material, indicating he had shrugged his shoulders.

“Yeah, but for how long?” Yohji whined.

“Until Omi says,” Aya replied.

“How long is that going to be?” Yohji asked.

Aya took a deep breath and counted to ten as he prayed for patience. Once he felt calm enough to trust his voice, he replied, “I wouldn’t know that, would I?” His words were hard and short, the syllables clipped off at the end, as he spoke them through gritted teeth.

“I’m so freaking bored,” Yohji muttered, with a sigh.

“Maybe I should just kill you and be done with it,” Aya growled, “Then, neither of us will be bored.”

“Funny. Very funny,” Yohji replied.

He was quiet and still for about two minutes. When he couldn’t stand it any longer, he groaned under his breath and leaned back to stare at Seven’s roof. “I can’t take it any more. I really can’t. I’m going nuts over here,” he muttered. “Just … tell me a story, or something,” he continued, glancing over at Aya’s darkened profile.

“A story?” Aya said, the words riding out of his mouth on a derisive-sounding snort.

“Yeah, a story,” Yohji said, nodding.

“You’re kidding, right?” Aya asked.

“I’m not,” Yohji said. “Just do it. You know, like a distraction. Surely you know at least one story,” he prodded.

Aya sighed. “It’s like my worst fucking nightmare come to life,” he muttered under his breath. He paused, as if considering his options, but quickly decided there were no other options. It was either comply with this ridiculous story request or suffer through more of Yohji’s nervous fidgeting. “Fine,” he said, sighing as he realized he had no choice. “I’ll tell you a story about two people I used to know, who fell in love on this very day, many years ago.”

“A love story?” Yohji asked, leaning forward to get a closer look at Aya’s face. He might as well have saved the effort; as always, Aya’s expression revealed nothing of what he was thinking or feeling. “You’re going to tell me a love story?” he asked again, unable to keep the surprise out of his voice.

“Do you want to hear this or not?” Aya snarled.

“Yeah, yeah. It’s just …,” Yohji said.

“Just what?” Aya asked, a clear threat edging his words.

Yohji cleared his throat. “Nothing. I’m good,” he replied, waving his hand to indicate Aya should continue.

Aya gave Yohji an eyes-narrowed smirk, but he paused long enough to gather his thoughts and, then, continued with his story.

“It all started with a man -- really, I guess he was still a boy in many ways -- who was working three jobs. He was from a poor family, and was responsible for supporting his mother, who was ill. Even so, he wanted to attend university. He had done well on the entrance exams, but he had to work to save up the money to attend. It seemed as if all he did was work -- morning, noon, and night -- until life became nothing more than a seemingly endless blur, broken only by the short spans of time he spent on the bus, going from one job to the next,” Aya said.

Aya’s voice was pitched low, barely loud enough to carry across the small, empty space between them. His tone was flat, almost without emotion -- as if he didn’t care about the story at all. Even so, Yohji found himself drawn into the tale by the steady drone of Aya’s voice. Within moments, he was no longer sitting inside Seven on a dark night; instead, he imagined himself sitting on a bus bench on a bright, sunny day, watching as an exhausted guy trudged by, on his way to the bus stop. He saw the man’s drooping shoulders, the untucked tails of his shirt, his mussed hair, and he found himself feeling sorry for the man. After all, Yohji had been there. He could remember, many times in the past, when he had burned the candle at both ends and around the middle because of work. Working as a PI could be like that -- sometimes you have more cases than you can handle, but you try to handle all of them anyhow, because it makes up for the lean times, when there’s no work to be found.

“On this day, the man was, as usual, on his way to work. He was rushing to catch the bus that would take him from his morning job to his afternoon job. As he approached, he could see the bus in the distance, about to pull away from the curb, and he ran to catch it. If he missed this one, he would have to wait twenty minutes for the next one, which would mean being late for his job -- and getting fired. He yelled for the driver to wait, and he was so intent on making it to the bus that he never saw the door that opened right in his path. He never saw the woman who stepped out of the store, her arms full of packages. At least, he didn’t see her until he had plowed right into her, knocking her to the ground and scattering packages all over the sidewalk and into the street,” Aya continued.

“Of course, he missed his bus. The driver, not caring at all about the man’s predicament, pulled away from the curb and went about his business, leaving the man sitting on the sidewalk, packages scattered all around him and an unhappy woman on the ground in front of him. The man fumbled for something to say -- some apology, some explanation, just … anything. But, all he could think about was how he was going to lose his job, and he couldn’t afford it. He knew he should feel bad for running into the woman; after all, it only happened because he was tired and hadn’t been paying attention. And yet, all he felt was mad. Mad at the world, because he had to work so hard when others seemed to have such an easy life. Mad at the bus, for arriving at the stop a few seconds too early -- tiny, little seconds that had now ruined his entire day, if not his entire plan for the future. And, mad at this woman, for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

“But then, the woman laughed. She had torn her dress and broken the heel of her shoe, and passing cars had already run over the packages that had fallen in the street. The items she had purchased -- clothing, some slips and undergarments, and a pair of new shoes -- were scattered across the pavement, for the entire world to see. She had every reason to yell at the man, or to cry, or to rant and rave. But, instead, she laughed. The man looked up at the woman, noticing her for the first time, and he felt his anger dissolving away. She wasn’t particularly pretty. Maybe, even, you would call her a bit plain. But there was something about her. Her eyes sparkled with the hidden humor in the situation, and her laugh was beautiful -- clear and lovely, like a bell. Her smile seemed to light up her face, in a way, and the man realized his first impression had been very, very wrong. Somehow, this woman, who seemed so plain and innocuous at first glance, was beautiful. The man didn’t understand it, but he felt as if he had come home. As if he had known this woman his entire life, even though they had only just met. He wanted to reach out, touch her cheek, brush the hair away from her face, and take her in his arms. He wanted to bury his face in her hair; he imagined it would smell like lilies, and he imagined her skin would feel smooth and warm beneath his fingers. And, he knew he had to fight against these impulses. He could not be so forward, for one thing. And, for another, he knew, if he followed through on this sudden urge, he would never do anything else, for the rest of his life. He would sit here on this corner forever, holding this woman in his arms and hoping the world would stop turning around them, just so the moment would last forever.”

Aya paused, his voice stumbling to a halt as if he was confused by the story. Or, as if he didn’t understand exactly what had happened, even though it was obvious he had heard and repeated the words hundreds of times. He knew them by heart, but the feelings and emotions involved remained a mystery to him.

It was a simple story, but, even so, Yohji had found himself pulled into it. He had been listening to Aya’s words while watching the scene play out in his mind -- a clear picture of the man and woman, both sitting on the sidewalk surrounded by spilled packages, and both laughing at the absurdity of the situation. But now, as Aya’s voice trailed off, Yohji’s mental image disappeared, and he looked around, almost surprised to find himself sitting in his darkened car on a deserted suburban street.

“What’s wrong?” Yohji asked, frowning in concern as he glanced over at Aya, who sat on the passenger side of the car, staring into space, his mouth twisted into the barest ghost of a perplexed frown.

“Nothing,” Aya replied, his voice so quiet that it was almost lost, even in the still silence of the car. For a moment, it seemed as if he would say something more, but he decided against it, sighing and shaking his head.

“What?” Yohji asked again.

“It’s just … stupid,” Aya answered, after a long pause, as if he couldn’t find the right words to express what he felt. “She was a complete stranger. How could he feel those things about her? How? He didn’t know her. He didn’t know anything about her.”

Yohji shrugged. “Love at first sight, I guess. You know, like soul mates or something.”

“Soul mates,” Aya muttered, almost under his breath. He paused for a moment -- the span of a heartbeat or, maybe, two -- before he continued, “Was that how it was for you? With Asuka?”

Yohji sighed. He didn’t want to remember Asuka, especially now. And yet, he could never forget her; she was always there, in his heart and his thoughts. He laughed as he remembered how they had met.

“She hated me, at first,” Yohji said. “And I guess, maybe, I hated her, too. For about ten minutes. Then, I just wanted to fuck her. It wasn’t until later on that I realized I loved her. I was stupid for wasting so much time, but I didn’t know she would be gone so soon. I wish I had. Maybe I would have done things differently, somehow.” He paused, leaning his forehead against the window’s cold glass, as he mumbled, “Her hair smelled like apples. Always like apples.” Yohji shook his head, as if he could shrug off the weight of all the old memories.

“I’ve never had that,” Aya said, his voice tinged with regret.

“You’ve been with women, though, right?” Yohji asked.

He felt his face flush with heat and was suddenly thankful for the darkness inside the car; he knew he was blushing. This was something he didn’t usually talk to Aya about, and Yohji found he was uncomfortable with the sudden twist in the conversation. He wished he could take his words and stuff them back into his mouth, or, maybe, rewind time so that he could go back and not ask the question. Because he didn’t know the answer. Aya was a private person -- almost painfully so -- and it suddenly occurred to Yohji that he knew next to nothing about Aya’s life outside the Koneko and Weiss. And, it was none of his business, anyhow. The last thing he wanted to do was embarrass Aya.

But, if Yohji’s question bothered him, Aya didn’t let on. He just shrugged and said, “Yeah, of course. But, I’ve never felt that way about anyone.”

“Well, you know,” Yohji said, fumbling for the right words, “It’s something that won’t make sense until it happens to you. But, when it happens -- just, everything falls into place, somehow. I don’t know how else to explain it.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Aya said, his voice inflectionless, as if he was simply pointing out a well-known fact. “Nothing like that will ever happen to me.”

It was a simple statement, but it hit Yohji hard. Maybe it was the way Aya said it -- like it was a foregone conclusion that didn’t matter, anyhow. He wasn’t sure, but something about it tugged at Yohji’s heart and made him think about everything Aya must have given up to live this life as one of Kritiker’s killing dogs. Sure, he had chosen this path, and Aya never complained; he seemed to accept his life choices for what they were -- what had been available to him at the time and the surest way to find revenge for what he had lost. He didn’t seem to regret the choices he had made, although Yohji had always suspected Aya just hid that part of himself better than the rest of them did. But, now, Yohji couldn’t help but wonder about it. He wanted to say something to make Aya feel better, even though he didn’t know what he could possibly say that would help. And, he didn’t even know if Aya wanted to feel better -- or if Aya felt bad about things, in the first place. Even so, Yohji felt compelled to say something. He couldn’t leave Aya’s statement -- spoken in such a cold, emotionless manner -- hanging in the air between them like that.

But Yohji never got the chance. Just as he opened his mouth to speak, their communicators crackled to life, and he heard Omi’s voice in his ear, telling them it was time to go to work. Even then, Yohji would have tried to say something, but Aya acknowledged Omi’s orders and opened the passenger side door, sliding out of the car and into the night before Yohji could think of anything to say. And, just like that, the moment had passed.

********************

It wasn’t a hard job -- as close to in and out as they ever got. The whole thing was over in a matter of minutes, leaving Aya and Yohji standing together in a blood-spattered room. The four bodies lay where the men had died, their faces grotesque, frozen in horror at the moments of their deaths.

Yohji wiped his hand on his pants, leaving behind a smear of red as he cleaned the blood from his glove before running his fingers through his hair. It was a nervous gesture -- more of a habit than anything else. He couldn’t quite stop himself from doing it, but he hated trying to get dried blood out of his hair. He wanted a cigarette, but, even more than that, he wanted to be out of this house. It was creepy quiet, now that the killing was done, and the smell of the blood was starting to make him queasy. He hated the iron taste it left in the back of his throat, like he had swallowed something horrible -- something that would eat him alive from the inside out, but that he could never remove from his system.

He glanced over at his partner, ready to tell him that it was time to get the hell out of Dodge. Aya stood a few feet away, staring down at the body of one of their targets. His clothes were smeared with blood, and there were spatters on his face, left there when his blade had found its mark. The sword’s naked steel caught the faint light from the adjoining room and seemed to glimmer slightly in the darkness. Yohji could see blood dripping from its point; it fell down to soak into the carpet near Aya’s feet. Aya didn’t move or say anything; it was as if he saw everything in the room around him, but, at the same time, stared away into thin air, seeing nothing. As if he was there, and yet, not there. And, Yohji was scared. He felt a sudden spike of fear stab through his gut, and his mind reeled as it searched for something he could say -- anything that would bring Aya back.

“So,” Yohji said, clearing his throat as he spoke. He winced at how loud and out of place his voice seemed in the eerie quiet of the house. “Did it have a happy ending? The story -- the man and the woman. Did they have a happy ending?”

Aya stood there for a long few seconds, staring at the body at his feet and saying nothing. Just when Yohji was beginning to worry, he looked up and shrugged. The light from the other room fell across Aya’s face, deepening the shadows along its planes and making the blood spatters stand out in garish relief. For a moment, there was an almost feral light in his eyes, and it took every ounce of resolve Yohji could muster to keep from backing away from his partner.

“No,” Aya said, “They got married. They were happy. Then, a few years later, I was born.” He paused, flicking the blood from the tip of his blade before continuing, “So, it ends here. With me. The story ends here.”

At first, Yohji didn’t know what to say. He stared at Aya -- it couldn’t have been for more than a second or two, but the time seemed to stretch between them. Aya held Yohji’s gaze for those few moments and, then, turned away, toward the door. Yohji knew he couldn’t let Aya leave like that. He couldn’t leave things that way; he didn’t know why it was important; he just knew that it was.

“But, that’s a good thing, Aya. It was a good day, that day. Any day you’re alive is a good day,” Yohji said.

Aya paused for a fraction of a second, his shoulders stiffening slightly before he continued walking away, toward the light leading to the adjoining room and the door out of the house. Yohji wasn’t sure if Aya had heard him. He knew Aya had heard the words, but he wasn’t sure if Aya had truly understood what he had said. Maybe it wasn’t possible -- not while they were standing in a room where the walls and floor were covered with blood, not while their clothes reeked with the smell of death. But, later, when they were home at the Koneko and they had washed all of this off -- then, Yohji would try again. And, he would make sure Aya heard him the next time.

The End