"So what do you think, the pink or the blue?"

Reaching out to delicately remove the quivering tulip thrust in his face, Omi glanced from the plant to the nervous tattoo of Ken’s fingers against the pot he held, blue bells trembling in response. "Nice solo. Didn’t realize you were a drummer, Ken-kun."

His friend goggled at him in incomprehension, Omi rolling his eyes and snagging the other flower before his friend could protest. "You might want to give that to me. You’re nervous enough you might break it and I don’t think I could take another round of ‘What should I wear?’"

Ken laughed, a sheepish self-conscious sound mimicked by the hand rubbing the back of his head, followed by the sudden panic of fingers trying to smooth back dislodged hair. "Sorry. Guess I’m just a little nervous."

"No kidding," Omi teased, gently enough so that his friend would understand he meant no harm by it. "You’re acting like you’ve never been on a date before."

"Just ‘cause I have doesn’t mean it gets easier, kid," Ken straightened his tie, grimacing as he rubbed at an imaginary spot. "I just wish we were going somewhere else. I hate fancy restaurants, I never know how to act. And I really hate French food."

"Why are you two going there anyway?" Omi leaned back in his chair, the clay pot cool to the touch, damp nearing the base and he was careful to hold it near his apron. He was minding the shop this afternoon and the last thing he wanted or needed was for a gaggle of giggling schoolgirls to walk past and find him with a wet spot on the front of his shorts. The last time that had happened, Yohji had laughed himself sick, teasing him mercilessly until Aya had very quietly and very firmly told him to cut it out. "I mean if you hate French food--"

"Emi chose it," Ken shrugged. "After being turned down the first couple of times I asked, I wasn't about to get picky about the food."

"Oh." Well, this was new. He tried to recall the last time that Ken had to work at getting a girl to go out with him and wondered if that was the attraction of the faceless Emi. It wasn’t that his friend flirted shamelessly as Yohji did, pandering to every female that crossed his path but he had no problems keeping his social calendar filled. "Well, cheer up. Maybe it'll be worth it and she'll be the one."

Ken gave him an odd look. "I'm not looking for anything long term, being in Weiss kind of precludes that, yanno? At this point, I'd be happy for the companionship plus benefits."

"Benef--" Omi felt his cheeks heat in comprehension. /Oh./ He didn't know why his knee jerk reaction was to blush and skitter back; it wasn't as if he hadn't been privy to several such conversations between Yohji and Ken. He knew very well what they did in their off time and really it didn't bother him, and it was his none of his business anyway.

"You should try it sometime."

"Huh?" He jerked his attention back to Ken who was eyeballing him in return, his gaze speculative.

"Dating. Girls. Getting out of the shop," Ken elaborated. "Acting like a teenage boy."

His tone was only half-teasing and Omi felt the barbed half that wasn't. "I do so act like a teenager. I--I like video games and movies and --"

"You don't have any friends besides us," The Siberian pointed out gently. "Even Aya gets out from time to time."

And there was the crux of it. The others did get to have a life outside of the shop and the mission. They got to go where they wanted, when they wanted and he…well, he couldn't. All his life he had been secreted away from the rest of the world, buried away like some fairy tale princess, wanting for nothing but his freedom and that had never been his to begin with. There had always been someone at his side, watching him, guiding his steps. Manx was one of the few who had stayed beyond a couple of months; most of his keepers rotated out as if Persia feared him growing too attached to any of them, as if that had ever been a possibility. No tutor or bodyguard had ever taken the time to breach protocol, to actually get to know him, what he liked or disliked beyond what he told them. There was no one there to help him puzzle through the shattered memories, the cryptic nightmares that left him shaking, tears streaking down his face even when he couldn't remember how or why they had come. The one time he had tried bringing it up to Persia, he had been met with smooth evasion, and his computer access cut when he tried to hack his mentor's systems. Whatever the man knew, he wasn't sharing and those files were being kept carefully hidden away.

At fourteen, he had made his own declaration of independence. Well, series of them actually as he decided that if he were to be imprisoned against his will then it was his duty (as much reading on the subject had revealed) to escape at all costs. The problem was that he could only go so far without cash and that usually ended up with him playing hide in the brush with Manx, once spending a night up a tree in an attempt to allude her. She always found him, true but usually after being much worse for the wear. He actually made it to the train station once, having no idea what to do once he arrived except walk around and gawk at the people. So many people, all of whom were going about their lives, completely oblivious to how lucky they were. Men in somber business suits, briefcase or laptop case in hand, brushing past him as if he didn't exist. Young girls in plaid school uniforms, nudging each other as they passed him, frantic whispers going on as they tried to catch his eye. Children running after their parents, skipping and giggling as balloons bobbled in their wake tied by a thin string. The whole place was a microcosm, a mirror to a world he had seen in snatches and glimpses, tinted behind the windows of a limo or through the lens of popular culture. It had never been accessible, never been so vibrant and there, so close he could just reach out and touch--

Only he couldn't because their world was not his world and it hadn't been in a long time. Maybe never had been truly. No matter how much he might wish it were otherwise, his imposed exile had left him with too many gaps, not the least of which was a handicap when dealing with people his own age. In working with Weiss he thought to rectify that, to live in the world and not outside of it but all he had done was trade of one prison for another. True, Persia had lived up to his word and not forced another bodyguard onto him but what he had done was far worse. Whether it had come as an outright order or as a subtle suggestion, he and Manx had turned Omi's teammates, the very people he hoped he could find a sense of closeness with, into his shadows. The only places they didn't accompany him these days were to school and to the bathroom. And the bathroom was starting to look iffy at the moment.

"That's because Aya doesn't have to be baby-sat 24/7," He meant for the words to be light, truly he did but stung so, they came out accusative. "Aya, Yohji… All of you can come and go as you please but I have to have someone with me like I'm -- I'm some kind of kid!"

"Omi, you are a kid." Then, hurriedly as if to preclude the stormy retort forming on Omi's lips, Ken added, "You're seventeen. Young enough you shouldn't have to worry about this--about any of this. Sometimes I don't understand what Persia is…"

The words trailed away and Ken appeared acutely uncomfortable, knuckles white as he gripped the Formica tabletop, fake marble stained with bits of dirt and leaves. "Go ahead and say it," Omi was careful to replace the pot in his clenching fingers onto more secure holdings, afraid that with the way this conversation was going there was a real possibility it might get dropped or thrown or upended. "You don't understand what Persia is thinking? And you think I do?"

"I think you might understand a little more than you let on." The tone was neutral and the words were not, effectively waving a red flag.

"Understand what? That I've been a virtual prisoner from the time I could walk? You think that makes me privy to Persia’s grand design? Just because I spend more time with him than the rest of you doesn’t mean there’s a great conspiracy theory in the works. I don’t need you to remind me that I’m different from the rest of you, Ken-kun, I’m already well aware."

"Aw shit, Omi. I didn’t mean to—"

"Yeah, you did and it’s okay. We’ve all got our problems – I just got the fucked up childhood on top of having to graduate high school." He attempted to smile, to be reassuring but his face felt stiff, plastic and unmoving. "Besides, how many seventeen year olds could actually threaten to kill you and mean it?"

"You don’t have do that, you know?" Ken caught his arm as he bent to pick up a fern near his feet. "You don’t have to pretend that it doesn’t matter."

"I know that and I’m not doing it for you, Ken," he kept his head bowed, bangs falling across his eyes, hopefully hiding him as much as they obscured his vision. "I’m not like you or Aya. I can’t just shut off my feelings or get explosively angry and then over it. If I let myself think on it, then I’ll dwell and I don’t want to do that. I’d rather not think on it because it won’t get me anywhere except depressed and the last thing this house needs is a depressed teenager."

He turned away, hastily reaching for a pot of white jasmine that was in desperate need of replanting. He hoped Ken would take it for the dismissal it was, an abrupt end to a conversation they never should have had, but a hand snaked out to catch his wrist before he could leave to get a potting shovel.

"Just because we ignore it doesn’t mean we haven’t already got one."

Ken’s eyes were painfully serious, that same mixture of concern and exasperation that somehow seemed to characterize the older man, and Omi fought the urge to yank his hand away. He appreciated the concern, really he did, but dwelling on childhood memories made him edgy, building up a well of nameless emotion so thick it could bring him to tears, unwarranted fits of laughter or even violence and there was nothing Omi hated more than losing control of himself. Instead he froze, staring into coffee colored eyes burning with a sudden intensity, features equally immobile as Ken waited him out.

"Of course. I step out for a few moments and suddenly all constructive activity in this place stops."

Omi started, twisting his arm away from Ken at the dry statement, turning in horror to find Aya leaning against the doorframe, fingers clenching white knuckled against a hapless pot of wisteria. He was glowering, violet eyes veritably glowing with aggravation as he eyed the pair, Omi’s wide-eyed stare and Ken’s casual sprawl against the counter.

"A-aya!" Omi managed to squeak, inching further away from Ken’s impatient glance as he stared Aya down, daring him to say something.

To Omi’s surprise it was Aya who looked away first. "You should be working, not holding hands," the redhead muttered, depositing the wisteria beside the jasmine on the counter with more force than was strictly necessary. The little plant wiggled pathetically with the force of the impact, and Omi shuddered at the look of sheer rancor thrown his way as Aya removed his gloves.

"We weren’t--"

"Don’t bother, Omi," Ken cut in, "We have nothing to explain to Mr. High-and-Mighty here."

"But--"

"I don’t want to hear it," Aya growled, shucking his jacket as he stepped into the back room long enough to retrieve his apron, pulling it on over his sweater.

"But Aya--"

"Good, cause you’re not gonna," Ken grumbled, snatching up the blue tulip from earlier to wave angrily at the redhead. "Do other people even exist to you beyond your bitching, or are you beyond noticing?"

It was like falling into another universe, Omi decided. An episode of the Twilight Zone in which the horror was not mysterious voices or funny looking aliens, but rather a reality in which the whole world suddenly lost the ability to hear you speaking when you were practically waving your arms in front of their faces. Ken and Aya continued taking shots at one another, circling like a pair of fighting toms encroaching on each other’s territory, and he wondered for a moment if they would actually come to blows over something this inanely stupid.

"Would you two stop!"

They paused mid-insult, the tulip in Ken’s outstretched hand flopping pathetically after waving about so emphatically. Aya raised a brow in question, and Ken snapped his mouth shut from where it had hung open at his little outburst, smiling sheepishly and rubbing nervously at the back of his head.

"Look," said Omi, planting his hands on his hips. "As much fun as it would be to see which one of you can piss farther, you think maybe you could find a real reason to go at it before you wreck the shop?"

"He started it," Ken muttered, shooting a vaguely worried look at Aya. Even the redhead’s legendary composure slipped in the face of Omi’s uncharacteristic crudity, returning Ken’s glance with a questioning look of his own as Omi huffed impatiently.

"Ken? You're not racking up the maturity points here," Omi retorted bluntly. "I've got better things to do than stand around and listen to the two of you bitch like a couple of old ladies. Not to mention you're scaring away the customers."

"But we haven't re-opened the shop yet," Aya pointed out, glancing at the barred door where a small crowd of girls were pressing their faces against the glass, pointing and giggling loud enough to make Omi want to wince and reach for a bottle of aspirin.

"That's beside the point!"

"Actually, I think that is the point--" Ken trailed off under the force of his glare, meekly edging closer to Aya, the two of them wearing similar looks of puzzled diffidence. "I'm gonna be quiet now because I have a date and I think Emi might like me in one piece."

Aya snorted but refrained from saying whatever comeback might normally have come to mind. Omi rubbed the back of his head, eyes rolling as he pressed his fingers into the pliable flesh just below his ears, edgy and tense despite himself. Maybe it was the ghosts of time past dredged up courtesy of Ken's gentle prodding. Or maybe it was the stinging truth of his friend's observations but whatever it was, he found himself irritated and feeling more than a little confined, the four walls of the flower shop seeming to press in on him like never before. There were suddenly a million other places he could think of wanting to be and not one of them was anywhere near the brown and indigo scrutiny raking over him.

"What?" he snapped and regretted it, Aya's eyebrow inching ever so higher as he and Ken exchanged a pointed glance that spoke volumes. The look was enough to make him instantly self-conscious, face heating and annoyed with himself for being embarrassed in the first place. "Could you two not? Please?"

"Not what?" Yohji chirruped, pushing his way into the room, juggling with the huge base of a potted willow sapling, Aya sidestepping to help him before man and plant overbalanced and toppled to the floor. His voice sounded wet and thick, muffled around the white stalk of a lollipop, a courtesy to Momoe who was continually chiding him about smoking around the flowers. Anyone else and Yohji probably would have told them where to shove it but there was something about the old woman, wrinkled face placidly grinning at him as she stroked her cat that seemed to confound the playboy. She was probably the only person Omi knew who could get Yohji to behave with little more than a well-placed request. In fact there were times when the man seemed almost…afraid of the woman, nervously slicking back his blond tresses. Which Omi found amusing, seeing the way he treated every other woman in his life.

The tree rocked in its clay container as the two men set it down, Yohji abandoning his half a few centimeters above the ground, leaving Aya to scramble for a firm hand hold, the redhead scowling as he bent to steady it. Yohji was already blithely moving on, stretching as the lollipop smacked against his teeth, oblivious to the murderous stare burning holes through his back. Yohji got about halfway across the room before seeming to notice the charged atmosphere. "Um, guys? What's up with the long faces? Someone cancel the Playboy Channel?"

Silence. Shoving a strand of hair out of his face, Yohji remarked dryly, "Oh hi, Yohji. Sorry we're acting like asses. Of course, we're always happy to see you. You brighten our day with your glowing personality and witty repartee--"

"Don't you ever get tired of hearing yourself speak?" Aya snarled, rubbing his hands back and forth across the thighs of his blue jeans. Omi closed his eyes, sighing as the throb behind his ear started up again. 'Round two here we come.'

"Why no, actually I don't," Yohji's voice was so cheerful it threatened to crack into a million happy pieces. "I figure one of us has to make up for the great fount of nothing that you contribute to most conversations."

'And here they go,' Omi thought wearily. 'Is it really too much to ask for all of us to have a conversation that doesn't involve egos getting bruised or thinly veiled threats being tossed?'

Apparently it was. Aya's posture becoming more aggressive by the moment and Omi had visions of him grabbing a nearby trowel and doing something permanent to Yohji. Or at least doing something that would involve making a whole new man out of him and Omi blanched, stomach (among other things) curling in sympathy. Ken caught his eye and shrugged, starting to lean back when he straightened, tugging at non-existent wrinkles. Out of the corner of his eye, Omi could see the line of girls growing larger and larger, many of them tapping on the glass and pointing at their watches, intent clear as they simpered at him. So that was it then? Another afternoon of listening to Aya and Yohji all but threaten to disembowel each other and trying to fend off the wandering hands of about a dozen schoolgirls all of whom accidentally found the opportunity to pinch him in embarrassing places?

It was just too much and he found himself untying his apron and yanking over his head, crushing it into a ball as he flung it on a nearby table. The action caught everyone's attention, heralding a barrage of questions.

"Omi--"

"You okay, buddy? You're kinda looking homicidal there--"

"Where are you --"

He stomped past them towards the kitchen and the back exit, pausing in the door and holding up one, then another, and then another finger. "One, no. Two, no. And three, out."

"Out?" Yohji sounded positively astonished. "You're going out? Where?"

"I don't know," Omi all but waved his arms, voice raising in volume and felt his face well and truly flame this time. He was being stupid and melodramatic but goddamn it, so were they and at least he had the excuse of still being in high school. "And what's more I don't really care because it has to be better than here."

"Omi--"

"Don't you say a word, Ken. Not one word," Omi grabbed his jacket off the rack, tugging it and his cap on his head. "You were the one who said I should get out more. Well, I'm taking your advice and if one of you so much as follows me, I'll--I'll fix you ass deep in grunt work the next mission, I swear to God."

"Omi!"

He backed up, kicking the door separating the shop and kitchen shut with the heel of his sneaker, nimble fingers catching the lock before they had a chance to stop him. The doorknob twisted and jangled as someone on the other side attempted to force it, the wooden panel rattling on its hinges. He paused, breath caught in his chest, his heart beating faster than before, much akin to the beginnings of the adrenaline rush he got on every mission. Fists pounded against the door and there was yelling, probably Ken, mortified and most likely berating himself for opening his mouth in the first place, already accepting blame for whatever stupid thing he imagined Omi was going to do. 'I can't believe I did that. Oh Christ, I can't believe I just did that.'

"Yo, Omi. Look whatever we did to piss you off," There was a pause, Yohji's voice coaxing, "Just remember I had nothing to do with it. I mean, I wasn't even here until -- Oww! Fuck, Ken, that hurt!"

"---you're not helping you, idiot!"

"Of course I am. I'm just trying to point out that if he wants to talk to someone he doesn't have to rely on you two schmucks and --"

The pounding and chattering ceased, Omi skittering back a step as Aya's voice, annoyed and commanding silenced the others. "Omi. Open the damn door. Now."

"N-no," he managed, one thought chasing itself around his mind. 'Aya's gonna kill me, Aya's gonna kill me, Aya's gonna fucking kill ME!'

The quiet that gathered was ominous and he could well imagine Aya's eyebrow twitching, much the way it did when he lost his cool with Yohji, a heartbeat away from smashing his hand through the door. Or better still, chopping it to bits and putting Omi at the business end of his katana. 'So much for pizza,' he thought mournfully. There would be no pizza now and he was sorry about that but he'd be damned if he was going to back down now.

The door groaned, creaking as if force were being exerted upon it and he could practically see Aya leaning against it, not quite throwing his full weight on it yet but coming close. 'Because I so wanted to be the cause for the door being kicked in,' he sighed, already composing an apology in his head for Momoe.

It occurred to him somewhat belatedly that the other voices had yet to chime in again and with Yohji and Ken that was virtually impossible unless they had entered stealth mode and were sneaking around-- Oh shit.

Omi dove for the back door, flinging it wide and sending a crowd of squealing girls sprawling as he darted past. "'Scuse me," he shouted, nearly tripping as one then another made to catch his arm, the pavement slippery as he skidded past.

He didn't have to imagine the dogs at his heels, he could give them names and that was enough to make his legs pump faster. Sheer desperation recalled one of Persia's earliest lessons, a mantra that he had drummed into Omi's head, almost a sort of rule number one, just behind "Don't get caught and don't die.'

/"The important thing about running away isn't the where to, it's always the where from. If you're having to do it in the first place, then it's best not to stop long enough to consider the where to," The man knelt next to him, tapping the side of his nose. "In that case, laddie, run like the hounds of hell are chasing after you."/

And oh he did.

***

It wasn’t the hounds of hell that came pounding and panting into the alleyway just after he’d burst through the door, but a loudly cursing Ken Hidaka, slip-sliding across a pile of rotted baby’s breath and fern leaves in his shiny dress shoes. Omi had barely a second to veer off, pulling a hard left into the street beyond as Ken swore and skidded into pursuit. He bowled several of the shop’s habitual fan girls over as they inserted themselves enthusiastically into his path, pushing past their grasping hands with uncharacteristic indifference and snickering faintly as Ken was caught, cursing and thrashing, by the confused throng. Yohji took more than a block to make his presence known, tumbling rather inelegantly into view from an awning perched over an outdoor café, crashing clumsily into the path of a startled waiter. He was a blur of flashing blonde hair and blue jeans, weaving into the crowd with practiced ease even as Omi darted ahead, using his smaller size to disappear amongst the throng of afternoon traffic--women and businessmen in meticulously pressed suits, dozens of kids his age lounging around with friends before heading home for the evening--Yohji never really stood a chance.

In the end he’d had to shimmy up a drainpipe and take to higher ground, watching from a rooftop as Yohji’s search grew more frantic, stopping mid-stride to reverse direction and pass over the same ground again. Ken was furious when he finally caught up, skidding into Yohji and exploding in a fit of temper that would have led to blows if Aya hadn’t shown up, all unflappable pride and cool disdain, shutting them both up with a well placed look. Omi wasn’t sure what had made him run so hard, as much as paranoia would have him fear his comrades, he was pretty sure they wouldn’t actually /hurt/ him for running off. Persia would never allow it, for one, and as far as he could tell, none of them actively disliked him as much as they seemed to dislike each other.

It wasn’t like any of them had ever really stood a chance at catching him, anyway. He was stealth boy, trained from an obscenely early age to use his smaller frame and innate intelligence to move swiftly and silently through any environment. It didn’t help him when he was lugging hydrangeas across the shop, or practicing hand to hand with Ken, but if he really wanted to get gone the others wouldn’t have gotten close enough to eat his dust as he scrambled free. It was more than a little frightening to think of leaving his life behind, fucked up though it was. Kritiker was all he’d ever known and even with the added weight of the blood on his hands, in the end Omi had to believe it had been in the name of the greater good. He knew the others thought he was naïve in that assumption, but they didn’t know Persia like he did. As much as he sometimes resented his mentor for his forfeited childhood he had never once doubted the man’s motives. He had to hope that good intentions were enough.

He couldn’t believe he had actually run from his teammates. Ken’s date was probably ruined, and Yohji would be pissed that he’d had to chase Omi for a good three blocks and even more annoyed that he’d lost out. And Aya… Omi didn’t want to think about the redhead’s reactions. At least if he procrastinated on the inevitable guilt trip he could enjoy his little foray into the real world without thinking about how totally he’d shattered whatever burgeoning faith the other man had in him. He would go home, eventually, because he had nowhere else to be and his overwrought sense of duty would stand for nothing less of him, but he knew it was not going to be pleasant.

‘Brilliant, Tsukiyono, just brilliant. If you manage to survive Yohji and Ken’s bitching Aya will truly /squish/ you for making him chase after you like that during working hours.’

He couldn’t even have said what had made him run in the first place beyond some vague notion that one more minute of listening to Aya and Ken’s idiotic arguing was going to make him say something truly regrettable. Lately he’d been feeling truly boxed in, as it became more and more obvious that any freedom he expected in leaving Kritiker to work with the Weiss team would be hard earned, and the continued labor of his teammates under almost total disharmony grated Omi’s nerves until his normally unflappable exterior cracked under the pressure. He couldn’t risk driving the team further apart with some impulsive, childish outburst. They were already indifferent to each other, and so far the only thing keeping them from total dissention was a silent agreement that Omi, the designated neutral party, would do most of the planning for their missions.

He could still see his teammates combing the crowd, easily tracking Aya’s flame red hair and Yohji’s impressive stature as they searched. He could have vaulted from the roof, falling into their path and making their lives that much easier after causing them so much trouble, but Omi’s usual sense of duty was overshadowed by some unnamable annoyance with the others, and he found himself turning away. They were comrades, partners in arms, and nothing more. Aya was right in pointing out as gently as someone like Aya would ever manage that there would likely never be anything more than that between them. As much as Omi knew that was par for the course, nothing personal and nothing intended to hurt him, it pissed him off. Enough that he found he felt no real compunction to help them out, and ended up scampering across another block worth of rooftops in the opposite direction of the shop before descending to ground level, wandering across an intersection to lose himself in the crowds of the garment district.

He was anonymous here, just another kid in a ratty tee shirt and shorts, and he couldn’t decide if it bothered him more than the situation at home. The guys didn’t take him all that seriously, conversation was limited to what they needed to get things done and more often than not he was left with the burden of keeping things going as a matter of course before he was summarily dismissed from their attention. It wasn’t much different than the platitudes of strangers, everyday activities gone through when ordering food or browsing a shop, the kind of hollow discourse that was said for the sake of speaking, filling the silence with meaningless chatter to create the illusion of a connection, if only momentarily. He’d allowed himself to hope that it would become more, but listening to Ken talk about his date, the utter resolution that the members of Weiss would never have anything resembling closeness with anyone, that they didn’t deserve to keep any of that intimacy for themselves… It was a terribly lonely existence, and the realization of how easily he would be denied for the sake of that philosophy stopped him cold.

"O-omi?"

He pulled up short, blinking in confusion at the figure before him, hands clasped over her frock in mock demureness. It was green today and somewhat less frilly than her usual fare, but stylish, a nice contrast to the darker tones of her hair and eyes. Ouka wasn’t particularly pretty, but she was attractive in that way that well put together women could be, primped and polished enough to seem a force to be reckoned with. She had a personality to match, all friendly smiles and ditzy commentary until she found something she wanted, then she was more forward than anyone Omi had ever met. She’d made it quite clear that what she wanted more than anything at the moment was Omi himself, and as much as Ken or Yohji might tease him about her advances, he’d never really given them much thought. It wasn’t that he didn’t like Ouka. She was a perfectly nice girl when you got right down to it, and she went out of her way to accommodate him, but he’d always thought you were supposed to feel something special when you met the person you were supposed to be with. With Ouka he’d never managed more than mild amusement at her increasingly outlandish attempts to get his attention.

"Ouka," he managed. "How are you?"

It was a wonder he ever managed normal conversations with the way he fell so easily into platitudes, smile forming almost involuntarily as he regarded the girl before him.

She frowned. "Omi, what are you doing here? You’re supposed to be at the shop this afternoon."

Her tone was almost scolding and Omi’s stomach sank. "You know my schedule."

His smile remained frozen in place, but his teeth were clenched beneath his upturned lips. It wasn’t even that Ouka was much of a nuisance, but anyone paying that much attention to his habits was trouble waiting to happen. Ouka was completely innocent in her interest, but if she somehow managed to stumble onto his more clandestine activities it could be costly, both to Weiss if she went to the authorities and to Ouka if she somehow managed to put herself into the line of fire.

Like he needed something else to worry about.

"Of course," she replied, cheerily. She stabbed a finger at him, invading his personal space, and he took an involuntary step back. "I know everything about you, Omi. Your favorite flower, what foods you like…it’s a girl’s duty to know these things about the man in her life."

"The man in her--"

"Life. Yes."

There was a surreal quality to talking to Ouka, he usually felt like he’d missed half the conversation before it’d even begun, or perhaps that Ouka were simply talking about something else. More often than not, he found himself agreeing to things he knew were a bad idea, whether that meant he was leading her on or setting himself up for embarrassment. The girl didn’t understand the meaning of polite hesitation, and he’d never been very good at saying no when it risked a girl’s feelings. It was one of the reasons the girls who came to the shop made him so nervous, knowing that if any one of them were to show any signs of distress, even if it wasn’t his fault, he would be endlessly uncomfortable until the problem was solved and they were smiling their thanks at him. It was ironic, his acute fear of hurting people, considering what he did for a living, but Omi couldn’t help it. He hated seeing girls cry.

"Ouka, I really don’t think…"

"Oh Omi," she giggled, latching herself onto his arm and leading him along. "Don’t be so modest. You know you’re very important to me."

There were times, frequently following Ouka’s more dramatic exits from the shop, when she left Yohji and Ken snickering about the audacity of his ‘girlfriend’, that Omi wondered why he bothered. Speaking never seemed to work with the girl, she did what she wanted and ran right over his subtle hints that her advances were less than welcome. He was used to it, it wasn’t like anyone else listened particularly attentively to anything he said outside of mission briefings, but it bothered him that he seemed not to have a choice in the matter of their apparently growing relationship.

"Really Ouka, I’m not worth your time."

"Omi," she breathed, eyes wide in shock at his quiet statement, leading him--rather insistently--towards a nearby bench and pulling him down next to her. She turned to face him, knees brushing against his as he extricated his hands from her grasp and curled them against his stomach. "What’s wrong, Omi?" she questioned, "It isn’t like you to be so negative."

And it wasn’t, he realized, as far as she knew. As anyone knew really, or cared. It wasn’t like him to project anything but fluttery contentment, the shining happy façade belying his often worrisome thoughts. Tsukiyono Omi, perfect student, the helpful boy who manned the local flower shop with his three close friends was not a depressive person. He was really beginning to hate that boy.

"Omi?" Ouka questioned, face pressing closer to his, attempting to maneuver him into eye contact as he ducked his head and focused on the hands clenching white-knuckled in his lap. "Is it really so terrible?"

He managed a short chuckle, grinning at the sheer inanity of the question. He wondered if Ouka could fathom just how terrible things could get, the blackest depths of human depravity he bore witness to on a semi-regular basis. Despite how discomfiting her presumptuous behavior could be at times, she was still as innocent and carefree as the other girls his age, ignorant of the world beyond her rich family’s province and assured in the knowledge that the world was a safe place by virtue of her place in it. She was a master manipulator in that world, but she would never walk safely into his, and that gave him some small province over her even as she maneuvered him into situations he would rather have avoided. She wanted something from him, as everyone seemed to, but she went about it all in such an obscenely kindhearted way that it was hard to be truly disappointed in her. Ouka didn’t understand him, would never understand the man behind his mask and earned his patience and affection by that very folly. She was the kind of person he might have been, had there been time and freedom and far more in the way of memory, and he would allow her her illusions if only to protect that fragile guilelessness.

"It’s nothing Ouka," he murmured, forcing a smile for her. "Really. I’m just being silly and obsessive and I should really stop moping before my face freezes in some despondent expression and Yohji has more cause than usual to make fun of me."

"Is that Yohji character giving you trouble, Omi?"

Ouka looked positively affronted, face screwed up in an almost comical expression of anger and he had a momentary flash of her trying to beat up Yohji to defend his honor and wondered if his comrade would dare to hit a girl. He laughed, almost shocked by how much pressure it seemed to relieve, and grinned at her.

"No, no, nothing like that," he said, "Besides, I think I can handle Yohji-kun on my own."

"Well, if you’re sure," she replied, reluctantly. "But if he starts bothering you, you tell me and I’ll take care of it. I won’t let anyone upset you needlessly!" She slammed her fist into her open palm, brows knit together in determination, and Omi laughed again.

"You’ll be the first to know," he assured her, reaching out to squeeze her shoulder.

Her smile was slow, positively sweet and a step shy of that mindless adoration that made him so uncomfortable. She reached out, fingers timid as they brushed a loose strand of hair off his brow, just within his line of vision. The touch was quick, a flit across his skin and she drew back as if burned. "That's much better," her voice low, throaty and kind. "You should always be smiling."

He wasn't sure how to respond to that, the moment bubbling outward and leaving him feeling awkward and fidgety. Ouka was venturing into dangerous territory and his day really did not need to be completed by sending the girl home in tears.

"I know what we should do!" She declared, startling him as her more assertive demeanor reared its head once more, putting them on more familiar footing. It was still disconcerting when she co-opted his wrist, dragging him forward, almost skipping.

"Ouka. Ouka! Wait, wait," he stopped, nearly toppling the both of them as she rocked back on her heels, dragged by gravity on invisible elastic. "Where are we going?"

"To the movies, of course," The blue-haired girl sniffed, looking for the world as if she couldn't believe she had to explain it.

"Just like that, huh?" He bit the corner of his mouth.

"Why not? Do you have anything better to do?"

The defiant streak in him wanted to rise to the challenge in her words, wanted to say, 'Yes, I do have better things to do, thanks' but that would have been cruel and for all her vapidity, Ouka had done nothing to warrant that sort of treatment.

He threw his hands up, "Fine, but anything with Meg Ryan is out. I don't do chick flicks."

He wasn’t usually so vehement about anything, but with Yohji’s annoying tendency to go on periodic chick flick binges in the hopes of expanding his pickup line repertoire and the recent rash of cinema noir playing at their apartments, Omi wasn’t certain another round of boy meets girl was bound to elevate his mood. Ouka was forward enough already without some contrived homage to true love giving her a reason to swoon in his lap, and there were at least a dozen idiotic jokes Ken had cracked about having to beat the insistent girl off with sticks that Omi had no desire to reenact.

"I promise something suitably violent. Bloody, if you want." He had to give Ouka credit -- her nose wrinkling was the only visible sign of her disgust.

Thinking about that, Omi shook his head, taking her by the elbow and leading her down the street. "Actually, I was thinking something more along the lines of a comedy."

***

Omi had never been one for banal activity, if only because the only pastime he’d been allowed during his truncated farce of a childhood involved surfing the internet whenever he could eek out a free moment and he often found himself in ordinary situations wondering just what he was supposed to /do/. It was strange to be the awkward one, the unsure one when his training aimed to instill him with self-assured agility, and he avoided such situations as much as possible.

Ouka was having none of it.

She had purchased a wealth of popcorn, sodas and a mysteriously sticky box of gummy bears, shoving the tray at him and suggesting he demonstrate his gentlemanliness by carrying the load. He’d been to enough movies with Ken and Yohji that any embarrassing faux pas’ had already played out in front of his teammates, and he managed to make it to his seat without doing anything embarrassingly conspicuous, weaving his way through the crowd with practiced precision, though the amount of nervous concentration he’d applied to the task resulted in his twice losing Ouka in the throng. She pouted, he smiled his remorse, and all was well.

For the most part, the movie was unremarkable.

It wasn’t until he was leaving the theater, Ouka clutching gaily to his arm as she chattered on about the movie and attempted to maneuver him into buying her dinner that he realized how much better he felt for it. Just sitting around for a couple of hours, laughing at contrived Hollywood humor simply because it was so terribly uncomplicated… he hadn’t felt so light in well, ever.

And that was the beauty of Ouka. Simple, spoiled little thing that she was, she too was terribly uncomplicated in that way that only the breathtakingly normal could be. Omi had never really resented Persia for taking him in, given that whatever the great black hole in his memory hinted at was obviously not pleasant, but he wondered sometimes what he might have been like if he hadn’t been brought up at Kritiker. Would he revel in the attentions of an obvious catch like Ouka, the girl with the rich, influential father who could probably assure him a future in whatever profession he desired? Would he be safely self-absorbed, living out the drama of high school on the grand scale of the rest of his classmates if the real world had never intervened?

That was the question though, wasn’t it? Whether the real world was the one in which you could walk down the street at night, oblivious to the night hunters dogging your steps from the shadows, or the shadows themselves, the alter-world that had claimed his life long ago.

"Omi! Omi, you haven’t heard a word I’ve said, have you?"

Ouka was pouting, and Omi turned to her with his most beatific smile, truly grateful for her company. Despite her faults, Ouka was a genuinely nice person, something that Omi had little contact with on a daily basis. Kritiker was the kind of organization that crawled into the trenches with its enemies, becoming part of the problem in an effort to beat back the darkness where no one else could reach it and its employees, while well intentioned, were often equipped with a truly impressive array of ulterior motives in any encounter. The others thought he didn’t see that, the misguided nature of some of the organization’s methods, but he knew. He’d lived in the compound for almost a decade and he wasn’t stupid. But they were doing work that had to be done despite its unpleasantness, and despite what it made them in the end. Warped though he might have been, he recognized the men they hunted for the scum they were, the kind of horrid characters who hunted girls like Ouka for sport and reeled in shock when the Weiss came to collect their due.

Still, it was nice to deal with someone who wanted to be with him for the sake of his company, who was honestly concerned for his wellbeing.

"I’m sorry Ouka, I guess I’m just a little too distracted for conversation."

She hummed her annoyance, throwing him a particularly scrutinizing look for a moment and tapping a perfectly manicured nail against her chin. "That’s very rude, you know. You’ll hurt my feelings."

'Mostly concerned for my wellbeing,' Omi amended, smile turning rueful as he patted her hand where it lay hooked over his elbow, caught in a light grip that told him it would take some wheedling and no small amount of prying to extract himself. It wasn't worth trying at this point so he guided her into the crowd milling outside, resigned to being squished between her and a rather sweaty man clutching a drooling child in one arm. The child babbled at him, blowing a spit bubble and he tried not to chuckle at Ouka's attempts to sidestep, almost flinching when they were jostled forward. He wasn't sure where they were headed at this point only that it was probably rude to idle outside of the movie theater and make small talk.

As if on cue, Ouka announced, ringing a free hand through her hair, tucking it daintily behind her ear, "I'm hungry. We should find somewhere to eat."

How could anyone be hungry after all that processed sugar and salt, he wondered, his stomach rebelling at the thought of more food, teeth slick and almost aching as the husky-hollow taste of gummy bears lingered. Still, seeing as she had paid for everything, tickets included, the least he could do was humor her. "Where do you want to go?"

Her lower lip became more pugnacious, thrusting outward in sullen displeasure. "I think you should pick."

"But--" How could he tell her that he knew few of the restaurants in the area, that he wanted her to pick the place she wanted, that she was happy with because it really didn't matter to him. Something told him trying to explain that to her in those words was going to earn him earful for his troubles. "Um, but you were so nice and let me choose the movie. Really, Ouka, I couldn't."

That pleased her for no reason he could discern even as she struggled to stay stern with him. "Now, Omi, a date involves two people and as sweet as it is that you want to consider me, I just can't ignore your needs."

"My needs?" he echoed wildly, mind racing. 'She thinks we're on a date? When did that happen? Wait--a movie and she did hold my hand and now she wants -- Oh shit, we are on a date! How did this happen? How did I not noticing this happening? Because I have the social skills of a gnat,' he answered himself mournfully.

"Of course," She was altogether too cheerful. A sinister, spider trapping kind of cheery, he decided and realized that made him the helpless bug. He paused, the image of Ouka hovering over his tied down body, pincers in place of her mouth and rubbing a pair of gray-brown spider legs popping in mind. He kept his eyes on the sidewalk as she continued, "You need to be more assertive. The right kind of woman can help you with that."

"Dear God," he muttered.

"What was that?"

"I said, oh good. You know, as in oh good we're going to eat. I'm suddenly starving." Omi whirled around, for once too unnerved to register the looming black trenchcoat and scarlet hair, arms crossed and scowling before he smacked right into it, bouncing off and backward, nearly capsizing Ouka in the process. As it was he managed to land on his ass, a painful jolt winding up his spine that proved little competition to the clench of his stomach as familiar black boots and hemline crossed into his line of vision. 'Of course,' he stared at his knees, ignoring Ouka's insistent tugs on his arm, cooing as she attempted to alternately comfort and wrench him to his feet. It couldn't have been Yohji or Ken; he could have dealt with their scolding, punctuated by fits of temper and patronization. The thought of Aya's aloof disdain was enough to make him cringe.

Instead he fixed what he hoped was a sunny grin, tempered with uncertainty rather than the dread icing over him, "A-aya! You’re here. Why are you here?"

The Abyssinian was unmoved, crimson eyebrows slashed downward, accentuated by the wrinkle between them as violet eyes bored into his. "I've come to take you home."

'Stay cool,' Omi thought. Which would have been good advice if he knew what playing cool meant. In lieu of that he decided to keep things simple and play dumb. "Is it that late already?" He turned to Ouka who was staring at Aya as if he'd leapt out of hell and offered her a pop tart, "Aya's always so concerned -- about my … schooling. It's late and I have school. Like you do, too. We were just going to eat, Aya and then I'll be straight home. Promise."

Omi couldn't make up his mind if he was relieved to be rescued from Ouka or if he desperately wanted Ouka to throw a tantrum and rescue him from *Aya. * He was leaning towards the second as Aya's glower darkened, fine lips thinning. "We're leaving now," Aya announced and his eyes practically dared Omi to disagree.

Fortunately he didn't have to, Ouka's mouth pursing up in huffy abandon, delicate fists clenching at her sides as she straightened, taking a tiny step in front of Omi. Bombay had to give her points for bravery -- not many people willingly stepped into the stone melting, laser precise gaze of his partner. "Now you wait just a minute," she began, voice rising dangerously.

Aya didn't say a word. He didn't have to; his expression said it all and what it told Omi was that the fine thread of patience the man possessed was fraying quickly and that he didn't want to be around when if snapped, let alone have Ouka caught in the fire. He didn't fancy the idea of having to peel the girl off the macadam, let alone deal with the ruckus it would cause.

"It's okay, Ouka," Omi cut her off, patting her shoulder and drawing her attention away from Aya, acutely aware that *he * was now the focus of the other man's intent gaze. "Aya doesn't mean to -- Well, it's probably later than I thought. We should probably say good-night."

Nose raising, she turned slightly on her heel so that her back was to Aya, the audacity of the maneuver surprising both men. He threw a desperate glance at his partner, 'Please don't kill her.'

Aya's eyes raked over him, dark and glittering and he felt…something. Not quite fear or discomfort, or even curiosity. It was indefinable and made him stare a little longer than was strictly necessary, Ouka's impatient recitation of his name dragging his attention back.

"Omi," she was almost snapping, piqued and sullen. He tried giving her another smile but found it wilting in the face of her sour expression. He thought about it, lightly resting his hand on her shoulder and feeling horribly guilty at the quick change it wrought, distemper banished by a burst of radiance. 'I don't need this,' he thought. 'I don't want to be responsible for her happiness. I never wanted that. I can barely handle my own.'

"Ouka, I had a really nice time,' he fumbled, seeking his words with care and concluding that there was nothing at this point that he could say that she wouldn't twist around.

"Really?" He almost winced at the shiny film misting over her eyes. She looked so happy and he felt like an absolute bastard. Ouka was really very kind-hearted and he liked her, just not the way she hoped he did and he had no idea how to get that across to her in a way that wouldn't be painful.

"Really." He assured her gently, giving her shoulder a squeeze. "Do you need a ride home? I'm sure Aya wouldn't mind--"

"I can get a cab. I wouldn't want to cause you any more trouble," she replied with a tart glare aimed over her shoulder at Aya. She shifted, eyes darting from his face to the ground then back again before darting forward, a brief press of dry soft lips against his cheek. Not waiting for his response she backed up, demureness personified as she refused to meet his shocked gaze. "I’ll see you tomorrow. At the shop."

She flitted away, the green swirl of her skirt bouncing as she strolled down the street, inordinately pleased with herself. He half-heartedly returned her wave as she went around the corner. ‘Tomorrow. Great. I can hardly wait.’

Then again, Aya might kill him and he wouldn’t have to worry about it. 'Now there's a happy thought.'

He felt the other man creep forward, stealthy and silent, invisible to anyone who wasn’t used to it, who hadn’t seen Aya in action. It edged along his awareness, leading him to tense up. "You didn’t have to be rude," Omi remarked quietly. "She didn’t mean any harm."

Aya grunted. "I don’t have time to play." Then, "Manx stopped by the shop."

‘Shit,’ he swore, already realizing where this was going before he committed himself by asking, "And?"

"We have a mission."

"She’s pissed, isn’t she? That I wasn’t there. That I ran away," he said wearily. ‘Oh good, I really want to be verbally spanked in front of the others. It’s just the perfect end to the perfect day. Oh and maybe when she’s done, Persia will stop by and rip me a new one for good measure.’

"She doesn’t know you’re not there," Aya corrected, his long stride never wavering as he headed towards a parked motorcycle. Ken's motorcycle to be exact and if Aya had it then… 'Shit,' Omi closed his eyes briefly as Aya continued. "Yohji and Ken are trying to keep her busy until we get back but she is going to figure it out if we don’t hurry."

Omi stopped short of the motorcycle, twisting his fingers around. "But—but I thought you were angry. That you were all going to be pissed that I ran off."

"We’re not happy about it and Ken missed his date but no one is … angry with you. Not the way you’re thinking," Aya tossed him a helmet, straddling the sleek black machine. "Yohji and Ken are probably going to yell because you worried them but as far as I know they’re not plotting your death."

"And you?"

Aya’s response was to yank his helmet down, the roar of the bike revving to life drowning out anything he might possibly have said. Slapping his helmet over his head, Omi climbed behind his partner, a second all he was granted to get a grip around Aya’s waist before the Abyssinian took off.

The ride back to the shop was for the most part carried out in silence. Aya was practically radiating irritation, annoyance seeming to thrum from his body to Omi's, Bombay keeping a ginger grip on the other. In one of these moods, Aya was a caged tiger and it would take little to set him off, so he held his tongue, mind starting and scrapping each attempt at conversation, survival instincts kicking in enough to tell him 'no fucking way'. Instead he held on as tight as he dared, head resting against Aya's shoulder as a light sweat broke out over his lower back, leading him to shiver as the wind streamed through his damp clothing, a fine line of goose bumps erupting. Normally he enjoyed riding on the back of a motorcycle, the sense of chaos held on a tight leash, pushed forward by horsepower and human ingenuity. With someone like Ken or Aya at the helm, it was easy to just let go and enjoy the ride, to allow one's mind to drift -- over a mission, or his schoolwork, or on those very rare occasions nothing at all besides the veil of street lamps they passed.

Now he was too tense to do anything except stare at the unending string of lights on the highway, the thin ring of pink around the glare of each headlight, the road itself bathed in soft hues of peach and yellow, casting shadows long as they passed over the bridge. He wished he'd thought to bring a jacket, teeth threatening to chatter and he found himself hugging Aya tighter, head thumping against the other, grateful for the warmth. He found himself wondering about the mission, impatient to be home but dreading the inevitable confrontation. His behavior this afternoon would send Manx through the roof when she found out and he could only imagine how Persia would react. The idea of disappointing his mentor so rankled worse than anything else. It wasn't precisely because Persia would do anything; he didn't have to. Omi could pick up his disapproval in a word or gesture, let alone by the stiff tone his communiqués took on. Or the subsequent silences that followed, with only Manx to serve as a go between. He despised being ignored which all things considered probably wasn't the best attitude in his line of work. There was just something about someone he cared about doing it to him, pushing him aside as if he were of no value, that absolutely killed him, leaving him desperate to make amends. Like Aya was doing to him now, no words passing between them but Omi's imagination helpful enough to fill in the blanks. That was the beauty of Ken and Yohji -- as pissed off as they might get at him or each other, they never outright refused acknowledgement as his partner so often did.

Omi fidgeted, the silence beginning to grate on his nerves in all sorts of new and exciting ways before he decided to chance it, scooting closer and ignoring the way Aya stiffened as he did so.

"So," he shouted, arms tightening around Aya, "How did you find me?

"I followed you." Came the flat reply, low enough he nearly missed it over the roar of the tires. "Don’t ever think that I don’t know where you are."

Omi blinked, nonplussed. 'Well that’s… blunt. And creepy.' How exactly did one respond to that? The serious of the tone denied the nervous giggle that wanted to escape, and being glib in this case was only likely to piss Aya off further. So, what was he supposed to apologize? Well, he was sorry that he had caused Aya and the others so much trouble and he was really sorry he had given Ouka the wrong impression but could he convincingly say that he regretted his little rebellion this afternoon? For those few hours of pretend?

Better to hold his tongue than tell a lie.

***

His window was open when they arrived, pushing the motorcycle along, both in stealth mode and Omi feeling patently ridiculous for all that. Aya had stopped half a block from the house, grunting out something about how if he still wanted to try and sneak past Manx, then they were going to have to walk the rest of the way. It was stupid and probably pointless by now and Omi couldn't help but wonder why Aya was indulging him at all. It would be far simpler for them to just show up and end this whole charade but seeing as he wasn't especially eager to run straight into the lion's den, he trudged along, feeling more akin to a Dead Man Walking than super assassin. Two grown--nearly grown, he amended in his case--men, killers by profession and what frightens them? A slender woman with vanishing skirt hems and spike heels. Heels which she would probably have no problem grinding into his spine when she kicked his ass, Omi thought mournfully.

Leaving the bike propped against the wall just underneath the fire escape, Omi took the lead, scampering up the metal rungs, heart in his throat and half afraid he was going to meet a narrowed pair of blue eyes, shapely legs crossing dangerously from a seat on his bed. Not even Aya's presence at his back was enough to reassure him. He wondered which one of them left the window open for them, if Aya had the forethought to do it or if one of the others had snuck around. Steeling himself he stepped up onto the railing just outside his window, ducking inside before his courage had a chance to completely desert him.

The room was empty. He almost sagged to the floor when something poked him in the back, a not so subtle reminder from Aya to move and let him in. The red-haired man knelt for a moment, as if to scout out the room, the same tension in the set of his body as when he faced an opponent. He would never admit it but Omi knew then he must have feared Manx would be waiting to greet them, too.

"I think we made it," Omi kept his voice low, almost giddy. He started towards his bed, ready to flop facedown in relief.

Aya rose out of his crouch, placing a hand on his arm and shaking his head, his other hand lifted towards his lips. He frowned, wondering what was going on when --

"--he's really sick I tell you!"

Yohji.

There was a muffled thump-thump of someone running, followed in rapid succession by the crackling groan of the door as a body was thrown against it.

"Kudou, get the hell out of the way."

Manx. Oh joy, Omi felt a fresh outbreak of sweat trickle down his neck, this time having nothing to do with the heat.

Yohji's voice rose in comic desperation as Omi caught Aya rolling his eyes. "He's really an icky sight. You don't want to go in there. He's um…crusty! Scabbing and throwing up. And there's a smell, a horrible nasty smell--"

There was something amusing about watching Aya very near smack his head in frustration.

"Yohji, if you don't get your ass out of my way right this instance--"

"You really don't want to go in there. He's -- Ooooooh shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit."

The door was very near kicked open, Manx thrusting her way past a hunched over Yohji, the blond man clutching himself in a familiar and painful looking way. The Kritiker agent marched straight into the room, stopping short of Omi and Aya. Taking Omi's chin in her hand, she turned his face into the light remarking dryly, "He doesn't look very sick."

Someone else came racing up the stairs, Ken skidding to a halt just short of where Yohji was blocking the door. "I heard yelling and-- Oh."

"I uh… got better," Omi answered her, avoiding Ken's eyes as his words were very nearly drowned out by Balinese's whimpers.

"You look pretty healthy in fact for someone who's scabbing and throwing up blood," Blue eyes bored into this before shifting to take in Aya. "And what are you doing here?"

Aya bristled. "He was sick. Someone had to take care of him."

He had to be hearing things. It sounded like Aya was protecting him -- from Manx?

"You were taking care of Omi?" Her voice dripped with the weight of her disbelief. "I didn't realize you two were so close."

"I don't really see where that's any of your business," Aya snapped, placing his other hand on Omi's free shoulder. He could feel them both glaring over his head locked in some silent battle of wills that he didn't understand. But Aya's sudden defense, coming to his aid when he had no reason to at all, made him feel inexplicably warm, protected and secure in a way he hadn't felt all afternoon. He stayed still, spirits buoyed by the steady hands resting on his shoulders, by the silent reassurance they seemed to convey.

For once Manx was the one to look away first, her eyes sweeping over the entire room before coming back to rest on Omi. "Fine. I don't know what's going on here and I don't care, but if I don't see all of you in the briefing room in three minutes I promise you I will find a way to make you all wish you'd never laid eyes on me."

In a move that reminded him very much of Ouka, she turned on her heel, stalking out of the room and snagging Ken by the arm as he was attempting to help Yohji to his feet. The blond staggered, catching the wall as his support was taken away, glaring after the retreating Kritiker agent and his teammate before turning to Aya and Omi, still bent as he wheezed, eyeing them meaningfully. "Jesus, you owe me for this one, Omi. Oh God… I think I need some ice."

Omi waited until he had hobbled out of the room before turning to Aya. "You helped me."

Aya waited, peering down at him in grumpy askance.

"I don't understand," Omi admitted. "I was a brat and I made you guys run and -- Why?"

"Does it matter?"

"To me it does," Omi nodded.

"Did you not want me to help you?" Came the equally brusque inquiry.

"I didn't say that. I just-- don't understand."

Aya shrugged, his hands slipping off Omi's shoulders, their solid comfort lost, leaving him to feel smaller, colder somehow. "Maybe because I was seventeen once."

He thought about it. "That's not really an answer."

"Can't you just say 'Thank you, Aya' and leave it at that?" The Abyssinian growled.

Omi tipped his face, a slow grin dawning across his features, pleased as that seemed to confuse the older man even more. "Thank you, Aya!"

***

"From the schematics Manx," Omi tipped his head towards the woman leaning against the wall next to Yohji, "acquired for us, I’ve been able to ascertain that the main bedroom should be right about," nimble fingers skimmed across the screen before tapping a particular glowing green square, "here. In the southwest wing."

"He has a wing? Nice. Why don’t we get a wing?" Yohji grumbled. "Better, why aren’t we being paid enough to have a wing?"

"And what would you do with that kind of money anyway?" Manx asked in gentle amusement, running perfectly done nails over her coiffed hair before tossing shining strawberry locks over her shoulder. Aya rolled his eyes as she shifted, the effect lifting her near non-existent skirt to new heights, Yohji and Ken seemingly fascinated by that gravity defying motion. Or maybe it was just the creamy expanse of thigh being revealed and practically shoved under their noses. The woman derived far too much enjoyment from the attention than was strictly good for any of them, delighting in the fact that she was off-limits and oh, didn't they regret that? It was more than a little cruel, a touch too malicious to be unconscious on her part. For all that she dressed like a Barbie doll, Manx was more than willing to stick a stiletto in the first one of them that so much as thought about trying anything. Of course, that didn't stop her from gleefully handing Yohji the means to his own destruction and Aya found himself wondering just how long the war between libido and common sense was going to go on before they found themselves taking Yohji in for stitches.

And it would be Yohji, Aya silently acknowledged, watching Ken tearing his eyes away with some sense of worried regret. Not even Ken was fatalistic -- not to mention naïve--enough to think he had a ghost of a chance there. Yohji…well, Yohji would jump anything female and with a pulse. Maybe a pulse, he amended. Pulse optional.[1]

"Besides trying to emulate Hugh Hefner, you mean?" Ken replied snidely, yelping when Yohji elbowed him sharply.

"Any man who can walk around in red velvet robes and pjs all day is nothing to sneeze at," Yohji said seriously. "Not to mention getting to share an entire mansion with beautiful scantily clad women. He even gets to try out new models yearly and –"

He broke off, looking around in askance at the chorus of sighs and rolled eyes directed at him. "What? Why are you all staring at me like that? I didn’t do anything."

"Of course not," Ken leaned back into the folds of a dilapidated couch, arms crossed over his chest. "You would never."

"Oh bite me," the blond Balinese stuck out his tongue.

"You’re not my type."

"Which is your loss and not mine—"

"Would you two kindly shut up?" Aya growled, inwardly pleased with the way both men started in their seats, Ken made a face, eyes near rolling into the back of his skull while Yohji’s eyes narrowed. He met the force of the other man’s glare, all but daring him to say something. Which might have happened had not Manx chosen to intercede, laying a restraining hand on Yohji’s shoulder, blue green eyes boring into Aya’s. He bristled. He didn’t like Manx; he didn’t like a lot of people but Manx was just a little too Stepford-esque for his taste, superficially placid and well-meaning until she pulled rank. And she did that more than she was entitled to for someone who was little more than a glorified messenger. Moreover, he despised the constant weighing he glimpsed in her gaze, as if he were continually being measured, some knowing gleam indicating that he was acting in accordance with prediction. Whose prediction he had a pretty good idea and that only served to make him angrier.

As much as he liked to believe that he was using Persia in order to achieve his own goals, the truth of it was the man had him by the proverbial short hairs. He needed Weiss to nail his family’s murderer and he didn’t want to need anyone at all. It grated, having to be part of a team when he would just as soon take care of matters on his own. His mysterious employer was careful to dole out only the barest of clues, seeming to know exactly when Aya needed them the most --when he was five seconds from chucking the whole enterprise starting with separating Yohji's smart mouth from the rest of him. He was careful to keep his hands out of sight, underneath his arms as they near cracked from the strain of clenching, avoiding the timid but curious glances Omi was directing at him and the slow curve of a smirk forming at the corners of Yohji's lips. Catching his eye, the long-haired blonde leaned back, tapping a cigarette against his wrist then producing a Zippo from the folds of his voluminous apron, the heavy rich-burn of nicotine curling around him in thin trails, Ken coughing and scooting to the edge of the couch. Christ, Aya wanted to beat his head against the back of his chair. No doubt this would lead to another of the former soccer player's interminable health lectures, which was ironic coming from a guy with a drug conviction on his record. Of all of them, Ken seemed to be living under some delusion that this was just some phase in his life and in a couple of months, he'd be back on the soccer field, leaving the opposing team in the dust. He hadn't had the chance to see Hidaka in action but the man's reputation as a first rate athlete preceded him even now, tainted as it was by whispers of drugs. He kept himself primed at top physical condition as they all did but not solely because it would save his life on a mission. If the man were being truthful with himself and with all of them, Aya felt certain some wistful admission of hope, of being reinstated to his former life, would come to light.

Idiocy. Worse, it was hopelessly naïve, clinging to some idealistic notion of the way the world ought to be and not the way it was. Even if some mystical convergence of events were to push forward evidence enough to clear him, it would never change the fact that Ken was a killer. He had just as much blood on his hands as the rest of them and deny it as he might want to, he had developed just as much of a taste for danger, for blood and violence, as the rest of them. Normal people did not rely on a wicked set of steel talons to settle disputes nor did they walk around in bulletproof vests much of the time. Ken might still project the image of a nice boy, the kind any mother would be proud to meet, he might use his coaching at the local rec center as a shield but it was never going to be enough. The beast had bared his fangs and it was only a matter of time before the hunter paid the price, be it with his life or his soul.

Not to mention, anyone spending an appreciable amount of time around Yohji was bound to come out with some irreparable scarring morality-wise.

Nostrils flaring, Aya glared, briefly entertaining thoughts of shoving that damnable thing down Yohji's throat, burning tip and all, and making him swallow. He hated cigarettes himself; hated their irritating stench, the way they stained the fingers and teeth, and the way they made his eyes water in spite of himself. If Yohji wanted to poison himself, he could do it on his own time. Aya would even help him on that score but he saw no reason that the rest of them had to be subjected to their comrade's vices. Actually, he saw little reason to put up with anything at all from Balinese who seemed to have taken it upon himself to do whatever possible to annoy the shit out of Aya at any given moment. It /amused/ him to find new ways to provoke the redhead and it infuriated Aya to find himself responding, ten seconds from losing his cool every time and having to catch himself. He despised himself for having so little control, that he gave a damn enough to be annoyed. Half the time he found himself walking out of the room before he gave into the urge to reach out and wrap his hands around Yohji's neck. As pleasant as the thought was, the notion that he would be allowing the other man the victory of seeing his composure snap so completely was unbearable.

Yohji pulled another drag before giving him a slow wink and blowing a kiss from the corner of his mouth. Beside him, Ken let out a harsh nervous chuckle, "Jesus, Yohji. You like to live dangerously."

"Now, now Ken-ken," the cigarette in Yohji's fingers waggled at him, ash flittering about as he did, "Aya has far too much fun making faces to do anything to me."

"Nothing permanent anyway," Aya growled.

"There, you see? Didn't I tell you Aya was nothing but a big old softie? Before you know it we'll be all warm and gooey, like a shoujo manga gone horribly awry," Yohji replied.

"Gentlemen," Manx interrupted, blue eyes steely and voice hard enough to make them all straighten. "The target is only going to be in Tokyo another week and I'm sure Persia would appreciate it if you could put your differences aside long enough to take care of this matter in that amount of time. Of course if you can't --"

"We'll take care of it," Omi replied hastily, blue eyes darting a silent appeal at all of them before coming to rest upon Aya. "Right?"

Had he been in Omi's place, he would never have sounded so hesitant. He would have made his decision and the rest of them be damned if they chose not to participate. Missions for Weiss were always voluntary; any member at any time could choose to sit a case out although he suspected there was only so many times they could get away with that before there were consequences. They all knew the risks involved or as Yohji so lovingly put it, "You pays your money, you takes your chances." So far as he knew, Omi was the only one of them who had never yet refused a mission handed down. Yohji tended to be choosy about the work and Ken flatly refused to participate in anything that might put children in the line of fire. Any fluctuation in condition in his sister's condition, positive or negative, meant that he would bow out of a case, something Persia and Manx understood very well even if the others didn't. Of course that would have involved them knowing more about his personal life than he wanted to reveal.

Omi though, Omi took each case, overseeing each detail from beginning to end with a passion that bordered on obsession, combing over records and schematics, sometimes skipping school to sit in front of his computer, fingers dancing across well-worn keys. His determination was admirable, sometimes misplaced as he sought to try and pinpoint every possibility, to eliminate as many of the variables as he possibly could. The trouble was Omi took it to heart when one of them so much as sneezed, let alone bled and not even his near mystical computation skills could take into account everything. Sometimes shit just happened and he had observed enough to know just how much it affected Weiss' youngest member, red-rimmed blue eyes glazed and haunted from self-castigation and sleep deprivation. He was terrified, Aya could well guess. Terrified that he was going to get one of them killed and so he went back over each mission, studying what went right and what had gone wrong, constantly trying to improve, to come up with better plans, and stretching himself thin in a hundred little ways. It was a wonder he found the energy to stagger out of bed the morning after a mission, let alone attend school and deal with a ravening horde of fan girls.

'And why do I care?' Aya rested his elbow on the back of the chair, meeting Omi's imploring gaze head on, letting the boy stew as he kept his council. 'He knows as well as the rest of us what he's gotten into. He's no better than the rest of us, perhaps a little worse because he's truly believes he's making a difference and not committing cold-blooded murder.'

His little tantrum earlier had surprised Aya, reminding him that for all his maturity, Omi was still young, that in spite of everything he wanted what all people his age wanted: friends, security, in short, to have someone care about him. What he had was a group of broken murderers, each of whom he seemed eager to take to his confidence, as if they meant something beyond the blood they spilled. It struck him again as it had the first time Aya had met him that Omi shouldn't be here, that he deserved more than to sacrifice his youth and naiveté on the alter of Persia's assignments. But all he had to do was look into Omi's eyes to see that naiveté and innocence that he wore so easily was a farce, a cloak to hide weariness so deep that he felt old seeing it. Standing outside the theater, that girl, Ouka, hugging his arm and prattling, it had occurred to Aya how even then Omi seemed separate. Happier, yes, more relaxed, but still wary, cerulean eyes still unconsciously tracking the crowds, sensing and picking Aya out with little difficulty. He was still a hunter, just as they all were, and no amount of normalcy was going to wash the taint of blood away. It permeated the compact elegance of his movements, past thought and down to the marrow. He would never have a normal life; none of them would. It was the price they paid to do their job and deal (or not deal) with the emotional baggage that entailed. Ouka could build all the castles in the sky she wanted, could plan down to each lacy detail some imagined marriage in a glowing far off future that would never come but she would never see beyond the façade. For her Omi would always be a pretty bauble, enticing because he turned her down, his kind indifference more of a turn on than any of Yohji's practiced suavity.

Maybe they didn't have the right to be happy, to have more than a shadowed existence, secretly waiting for the day when the tables would turn and they would become the hunted but he found himself wanting to let Omi hold a little longer to his illusions. To allow him the delusion that there was justice in the world and that the work they did mattered, that they mattered despite the fact the rest of the world would never understand their sacrifice. There was no nobility in it, only a tiresome futility, fighting against a tide that would never stop, would never even ebb. The so-called bad guys would come and they would keep coming and one day one of them would have a bad night and justice for all its vaunted ideals and elegant speeches would not be enough to save them.

When everything was said and done, all of them had something of a death wish, dancing on an edge as sharp as his katana's blade. They lived with it, breathed and created it, were maybe even a little in love with it. You had to be to chase after it as they did, to court destruction with unyielding singleness of purpose, tossing their lives and sanity into a game with far bigger stakes than even they were probably aware of. They were expendable and they knew it or if the others didn't then they should, Aya reasoned. Persia and Manx needed them because they had the skills necessary to fulfill the missions at the required time. Should those skills dull or if they became a liability, he had no doubt that another team would step up to take their place with the express purpose of removing the troublemakers. He wondered if it had even occurred to the others how precarious their position was or if he was the only one paranoid enough to dwell on such things. Which led him to speculating as to what point he had become that paranoid, that jaded and cynical that those thoughts felt not only right but proper. At what point had he become so blasé about meting out life and death, and when had it become normal for him to view people in connection to how much they could further his quest for vengeance?

"Aya-kun?"

He focused on diffident blue again, specks of cornflower in a sea of deeper cerulean glinting under the harsh swing of the overhead, the green text from the screen behind him casting an eerie aura, blond locks tinged with strains of viridian. The effect was a submerged one, as if he were looking below the surface of a pool. Omi was subdued, his expression betraying little although the way he nervously chewed his lip when Aya met his gaze belied that calm. 'He still thinks I'm angry about earlier,' Aya perceived and he was startled to find how much that bothered him.

"We'll take care of it," Aya confirmed although it felt more like an echo of Omi's earlier question and less a statement of fact. He was too intent on puzzling out this new development. Omi squirmed under his regard, obviously uncomfortable but Aya ignored that for the time being.

Compared to the other two, Omi didn't cause him near the headaches or worry. He was quiet and unobtrusive, pushy on occasion but only when he felt the matter important enough. Like that last mission, Aya rubbed his still tender injury. Contrary to his teammate's dire predictions, he hadn't needed stitches and he felt a little smug about that, even if the cut did ache like a son of bitch from time to time. Had he been left to his own devices, it probably would have taken longer, would have added another scar to his collection but Omi's stubborn refusal to do so, ignoring his curt dismissals had reduced even that possibility. There was something grating and endearing about the way he had fussed over Aya, insistent on redressing and cleaning the wound, continually prodding despite Aya's efforts to put a stop to such nonsense. He didn't understand why Bombay would kick up such a ruckus about someone he knew so little about. And it had taken courage to do that, Aya grudgingly admitted. He was not the most amiable of partners, by no means possessing either Yohji's or Ken's tractability. He was painfully aware that he was not lovable, was in fact prickly and could be as Yohji had so charmingly informed him, a stone cold bastard. He did what was required of him and no more, preferring to cling to the professional distance he maintained in the shop. This wasn't playtime; they weren't four friends living together; rather four strangers thrown together because circumstances dictated it. As much as he might envy the easy bicker his comrades shared, he found himself unable to connect, trapped behind a wall that had the first brick placed the day Aya-chan was taken from him.

But Omi still tried and for the life of him he couldn't understand why. More than that, Aya couldn't understand why he let it go on. What could he want from Aya enough to face his continual, often sullen, rebuffs? So far as he could see there wasn’t anything to gain from it unless he thought it would better synchronize their partnership.

'Or maybe he's just stupid enough to think you're worth being friends with.'

He wasn't sure which was more chilling, the sheer malice of that little whisper, cold and uncaring as it settled in the back of his mind or the slow opening pit in his stomach, uncertainty skittering and seeking to color every reaction. He glared as he caught Omi still watching him, eyes narrowing at the scarlet flush climbing up the boy's neck and ears. No one in their job should blush like that, should have eyes that were anything less than dead or indifferent. They shouldn’t be able to smile with such appealing honesty, a lie given away by the glisten of darker emotions behind blue eyes. It occurred to him that Omi might be the best actor amongst them and that irritated him anew, turning the full force of his glower on the teen, not satisfied until the other dropped his gaze in defeat. It was a hollow victory, not bringing the grim amusement it might have, leaving him strangely empty, almost regretful.

"Um, guys? What's with the staring contest?" Yohji cut in, "It's kinda creepy."

"You've given us the information," Aya ignored him, turning his attention towards Manx, the Kritiker agent's expression unreadable. "Is there anything else?"

She took her time in replying, apparently unhappy about something and he could guess what. "No, that's it. We'll contact you if anything new arises--"

"Then we're done," he stood, toeing the chair he was straddling out of the way, headed for the stairs, his earring thumping against his sweater. For some reason he couldn't fathom, he felt confined -- by his room, by his thoughts, and not the least of which, the subject of those thoughts.

"Gee, I thought I said something. Maybe I'm all invisible boy again? Ken, what do you think? Am I real? Can you feel this?" Yohji continued, a short stab of silence followed by an outraged squawk.

"Ouch-- Yohji!"

"And you can hear me. Hmm…must be Aya's being a prick again."

Any other time and he might have given way to the nasty retort that fell so easily and immediately to his lips but not now. He needed to get out, to collect his thoughts, and the best way he knew to do that was a walk. A long one. A really, really long one.

Maybe long enough to rationalize away the prickle of guilt brought about by Omi's downcast face and the memory of how warm the boy had felt standing so close to him earlier.

***

Omi sighed, chin propped on his hand as he hunched over a set of printouts, eyes feeling grubby and tight as they poured over the tiny gray lines. The kitchen was empty, the nook light above him the only illumination, the tiny red checks of the tablecloth visible through the paper. Tapping his pen, he found himself strangely mesmerized by the sight and the clack-tap-clack patter of plastic against wood, the words and numbers blurring the longer he stared, eyes unfocused. The others had given up several hours back, Ken headed off to bed and Yohji mentioning something about some girl named Yukio before the door closed behind him. Aya was God knew where and had been since the meeting adjourned earlier. That left him with pretty much the run of the place and provided he didn't jack his stereo up to earthshaking proportions, Ken would sleep through it all.

Normally he loved times like these, late at night with the shop closed up and the chatter of their so-called fan club was silenced in favor of more domestic sounds. Like the hum of the refrigerators in the basement, air conditioning new arrivals until they could be unloaded for the following day's business. The drip of the faucet that never quite stopped leaking no matter how many times Ken took a wrench to it. The ratcheting click of the clock on the wall, ticking off a quarter past one, a thin layer of dust and cracks staining the ancient surface. He loved the stillness, the slow motion that settled in and stretched the hours with feline laziness. It gave him time to think, to contemplate mission details without the distraction of the others moving around him. Or to simply sit and not think at all, to just listen to pull and take of air in his lungs, the rush of his heart when it caught, almost holding before he released that drawn breath. There was something relaxing about those simple motions, a shallow sense of meditation that soothed and allowed him to arrange his thoughts and emotions into some semblance of order. Usually.

Instead he found his mind wandering, unable to concentrate for more than two seconds and were Persia himself to walk through that door and quiz him over the last two hours' worth of work, he probably would have stared blankly and muttered something incoherent that no doubt would have gotten his ass fried. Quite possibly the second degree and a lecture about the importance of staying on task, as if he needed that speech again. The last time he'd gotten that one he'd been eleven and in retaliation he had rewired every power switch in the compound. It might have been more amusing if Manx hadn't turned on her makeup mirror and blown the entire circuit breaker. His butt still tingled in sympathy, nerves still twitchy from the spanking he'd received. The others would have loved that -- the hacker extraordinaire and assassin thrown over Manx's knee, ass bared to the world and thrashed within an inch of his life. She might not look it but the secretary had a mean right arm, a fact he'd gotten very well acquainted with until they had mutually decided that he was too old for such measures. Which meant in lieu of being beaten for the occasional stupid stunt, he was scolded often in tones more scathing than any blows and if he had really tried her, his net access and privileges were revoked. It was the sort of thing a mother might have done, a shred of normalcy in his otherwise unusual upbringing and he occasionally wondered if Persia had assigned Manx to him for just that reason. She was affectionate if not what one would call motherly but at that age he had clung to whatever emotional scraps he was thrown. For almost three years she had been his constant companion, training and monitoring him, until one day he woke up and found a new guardian standing over his bed, this time a nervously grinning young man. Omi had never asked Persia why Manx had been reassigned but he did wonder if his growing dependence on her and stability she gave to him had made his mentor nervous.

Stability was the one thing in his life he had always lacked, never certain that he would be in the same place from one day to the next, let alone with the same people. It had taken time to realize that friends weren't people who stayed with you because they were paid to, they didn't up and disappear without a word or good-bye when the job was done (well, except in the most dire and unusual of circumstances). His keepers had done that for him, had given him clothes and entertainment, fed and cared for him while educating him in the most eclectic of fashions. He could strip down a weapon in a matter of seconds, could assemble a bomb with his eyes closed, and find a way to introduce poisons into vital points of the nervous system with relative ease. But he had never been to the beach or gone out with a group of friends for the evening, had never had a birthday party or Christmas morning. The list of things he hadn't done in comparison to what he had done had grown larger by the day, compiled by wistful observation of the world surrounding him. And the blood staining his hands wasn't likely to open any more doors for him, already excluding him from the sheer mundane normality of the other students in his school. They worried about who was going with who to prom and he found himself wondering if he or the others would survive the next mission. He felt old and tired, rapidly being used up and wondered what would be left by the time he was Yohji's age let alone Persia's. Would he even care anymore or would it become so much that cynicism left him little more than a bitter husk? Omi dropped his pen, rubbing his hands over his face. It was hard enough thinking beyond the next five minutes let alone the next five years and as dear as Yohji-kun was, he found himself wanting more than to simply chase after the next great fuck. 'This of course all being dependent on not dying the next time I step out the door,' he thought. The irony was he might just as easily get hit by a bus as he could a stray bullet and wouldn't that just be funny?

'I should go to bed before I drive myself crazy,' Omi grimaced. Existentialism was all well and good but it didn't exactly make for comforting rest and he really didn't want to spend the rest of the night wrapped in the disorienting tendrils of a nightmare. His stomach growled, spikes of hunger making him glance down at the disturbance. He tried to recall when he last ate and the only thing he could come up with was the bag of popcorn at the theater hours and a lifetime ago, someone else's life to be exact.

"Sandwich," he mumbled. There was certain to at least be a couple slices of bread and cheese around or maybe even some peanut butter if Ken had done the shopping this time. Food, then bed. He started to stand but only got as far as placing his hands on the table, preparing to push himself upward when a white rectangular object was thrust just under his nose, startling him into losing his grip and falling backwards. Papers flew, dislodged by the wild sweep of his palm as he tumbled, chair rocking and nearly upending in the process. Panic flared as he realized he hadn't sensed anyone in the room with him until it was too late to do anything except react and even that action had been tempered by sluggishness. If it had been someone who meant him harm, he would already be bleeding on the floor and he supposed that should have made him feel better but in the end all it did was embarrass him anew.

"Um," he gave himself a moment, trying to convince himself that as humiliating as this all had been, it couldn't get any worse.

Of course it could.

Lavender eyes, almost plum dark in the half-light, stared down at him, Aya's expression cool, quizzical as he tilted his head, tufts of blood-red hair floating around his face, wind-blown and charmingly askew. Aya was dressed in his trench coat, silver buckles stretched tight and shining, leeching more color from his skin until he appeared translucent, a pale shade rising out of the darkness. In his hands were a couple of boxes, held away from him as if he couldn't understand how they had gotten there or why he was still holding them. It took a second for Omi to do more than gape, registering the familiar flat shape, the crude unwieldy cardboard stamped with a green curling logo.

A pizza box.

"Aya-kun?" Omi's voice cracked with uncertainty. Hope was almost painful as grew in his chest, through the deep freeze of doubt long settled. There was misgiving there too, transmuted from his earlier panic into something more potent, almost solid as it stirred within.

"You said there should be pizza," If he hadn't known better, he might have thought Aya seemed skittish, almost spooked. Aya, who was afraid of no man, who leapt into the fray without a thought for his own safety, and killed without hesitation. Aya "I thought -- Here."

The box was shoved into his limp hands, the Abyssinian withdrawing a step, straightening the cuffs of sleeves, replacing his customary nonchalance like a well-worn pair of gloves. Omi couldn't help it, gingerly fingering the container, gaze darting from it to his partner. Somehow the natural order of things had just upended like a giant Etch-a-Sketch and the picture he was left with was less clear, definition made hazy and open. The script had been taken away and he was treading into uncharted territory, the moment longed for but unlooked for even in his most private of desires.

"It's cheese," Aya spoke again, mouth pursed, "Everyone likes cheese. I mean, it wasn't like I knew what kind of toppings you wanted. I could have just gotten pepperoni but some people like sausage." Pause. "The crust is doughy. Because this is pizza and not a giant cracker with sauce and I hate how dry the dough can get when it's paper thin. That’s not a problem?"

'Aya's babbling,' Omi thought faintly and the thought should have amused him. Instead it was unnerving. In two minutes he'd said more to Omi than he had in the last week and he was probably the only person who could ask if something was a problem and make it sound like a threat. 'He doesn't know what to make of this anymore than I do.'

So why on the earth had he done it?

Aya had stopped speaking again, looking distinctly uncomfortable, almost if he were regretting not only opening his mouth but stepping in the kitchen in the first place, peace offering in hand. And that's what it was, he realized. A peace offering, an overture, an olive branch. Aya was trying -- because that's what friends did. Aya was trying to be friends. His mouth tipped, a slow smile spreading until he found himself biting the inside of his lip in an attempt to stop it from becoming an outright grin, stretched from ear to ear.

"I'm sure it's fine, Aya-kun," he replied at last, nodding as if to reinforce his words. "Cheese is great. I love cheese. All kinds of cheese -- well, maybe not that smelly green stuff Yohji keeps in the 'fridge but … Um. And dough, too. Dough is always of the happy. You kind of need it and all because hello, not pizza otherwise."

Omi broke off, Aya nonplussed as he loomed. He couldn't help himself, a flash of teeth brushing his lower lip as he grinned, trying to project as much harmless cuteness as he could in one go. He didn't think Aya would kill him at this point, not with the pizza and having spent the money and all but on the other hand, the Abyssinian was not one to suffer fools gladly. And he couldn't be sure how the man would react if he let out the nervous giggle he'd been stifling for the last few minutes. Omi rocked back and forth on his heels, almost hugging the box, the steaming contents soaking through the flimsy board and warming his hands. Tangible, edible proof of --something, some kind of regard, and now that he had it in his hands he wondered what next. Presumably it meant sitting down and eating but what about talking and what would he talk about with Aya? The shop? The mission? Those were things they shared in common, yes but it was also work and he desperately wanted to leave that behind for the moment. Omi couldn't quite see himself asking Aya to join him for a round of zombie ass kicking with the new Resident Evil game. He could just imagine what might happen to his poor game console if the redhead turned out to be a poor loser as well as poor player. Ken had already cracked the casing when he'd thrown the controller down in disgust after a wrong turn in Grand Theft Auto left him crashed and burning. 'Besides I'm not sure I'm ready to wrap my mind around Aya playing video games,' he thought. 'It just seems surreal and wrong somehow -- like Britney Spears' continuing career.'

"What?" Aya's confused voice intruded in on his ruminations.

Omi blinked, "I didn't say anything."

"There was mumbling," Aya countered, scowl deepening as if the words tasted bad. "Something about Britney Spears?"

'Shit. I didn't think I actually said that -- What else did I--? Oh fuck. Lest we forget the joys of inner monologues.' "I was just -- um. Nothing really," Omi answered hastily, "Not a thing. Oh look, pizza. We should eat the pizza before it gets cold because yanno, cheese gets all gross and oily when that happens. I-- I'm going to clean off the table. Can you get a couple of plates?"

***

There was something ridiculously bizarre about this whole scenario, Aya decided, taking another swig of Killian's, grimacing in distaste as the strangely bitter-dark brew fell heavily on the tongue. There was something decidedly nasty about beer, about the way it coated the tongue and made his mouth feel like it was sweating, obliterating some of the more pleasant taste of the meal, mixing tomato sauce and cheese with a foamy flatness. The residue left by that mixture was enough to make him drink more, if only to banish one aftertaste with another. As far as alcohols went, he preferred stronger brew -- sake, vodka, even a straight shot of Jim Bean on occasion. Beer was just too much like drinking water from a vat of gym socks left in moldy pond water for a week. But sometimes you just had to make do with the materials at hand, he acknowledged and so he indulged on occasion, each time swearing it would be the last, that there was no way he would subject himself to drinking such swill again.

The swill in question belonged to Yohji and the thought of his teammate's overblown indignation was very nearly enough to justify torturing himself. More than that, he needed something tonight, feeling as displaced and unsettled as he was, and the only thing stronger than the stash of Killian's in the back of the fridge was one of Ken's health drinks and there was no way he was drinking anything touting wheat germ and pureed fish eyes as part of the brew.

The scene was so blissfully … normal, so typical and mundane that Aya felt as if he had stepped into someone else's life. Or worse, back in time a few years, needing only to exchange the kitchen for a comfier living space, family pictures on the walls and the well-worn cushion of the couch beneath him. The small portable color television set should be larger, with an entertainment center rolling out the shrill screams of the girl running across the screen, instead of barely squeaking out of tiny speakers. And the boy swaying in the seat next to his blinking owlishly at the screen every so often, would be a girl, hair tied in beloved twin braids as she chattered at him, clutching his arm during the more frightening parts of the film. The illusion was there, so close that he had only to close his eyes and let Omi's drowsy rich words blur and he could be home again.

It was a dangerous gambit, a fantasy best not indulged if he wanted to be able to function. Before this he had thought that Aya-chan's incapacitation, the weight of guilt for not having done more, could not have hurt more. It seemed wrong somehow, to sit here and enjoy himself when she couldn’t -- when she might never-- He shoved the beer bottle skidding across the tabletop, almost hissing in ire. The sound clattered loudly, almost perfectly in time with another curdling scream from the movie and Omi bolted, spine popping loudly as he jerked full force back into consciousness. The table rocked as the boy's knees plowed upward, wringing a surprised curse and pain chasing the last vestiges of sleep away.

"Aya-kun?"

There it was again, that sympathetic questioning tone, the gentle one that he didn't deserve to hear let alone have directed at him. The one that left him feeling somewhat helpless, annoyed because he knew it shouldn't bother him and it did. Aya reproached himself for having done something to warrant that tone. He knew better than to drink this late at night, particularly with company. Nothing good ever came of it beyond a few maudlin, barely sober visits to the hospital, his arrangement with Kritiker precluding the hospital from barring him at any time. The thought of retreating to that cold inner sanctum, devoid of all life save the machines monitoring his sister and the slow rise of her chest didn't hold the comfort it might normally have. He wanted to be here, in this moment, with this person, with Omi who could talk and respond to him.

He wanted--

Aya tried to stop the thought, horrifying as it was but it skittered past anyway. 'To be with the living and not the dead.'

He found himself nauseous and resentful, and wondering who the feeling was directed at more: Aya-chan, Omi, or perhaps himself for being so weak in the first place. Shaking his head, he studied the bobble of the bottle, still wiggling back and forth, a breath away from possible shattering. "Ask me some other time."

There was no need to elaborate further and he wouldn't, trusting that Omi would understand as he always seemed to, that there was a time to push and now was not that time.

The boy sort of nodded and shrugged in the same breath, a dip of his head and rise of his shoulders, neck disappearing turtle-like within the folds of his sweater. "I was drifting," he confessed, expression sheepish and apologetic.

"I noticed. Don't worry about it," Aya replied before that apology could make it off Omi's tongue. "Why don't you go to bed?"

"I'm not that tired. Besides, this is fun."

"Oh yes, nearly falling face first into your slice of pizza -- I'm sure that's loads of fun."

He hadn't meant to sound so sarcastic, had been reaching for something more teasing but notes came out all wrong and he sounded so cynical and flat, hollow through and through. He thought again of Aya-chan, of what she would think of him to see him as he was now. Omi didn't seem to mind though, even laughed a little. A fleeting sound but it ran through him like a pleasant shock and confusing for all that. Even when the sound ceased, the feeling remained, in part due to the way Omi was smiling, eyes crinkled, twinkling if eyes could twinkle. There was something about it, about the way he sat, the way he acted and held himself that was different. A mood that had passed between them, leaving him unaware of its very existence until now, difficult to pinpoint and understand.

Then it hit him. Omi was at ease with him. Completely and utterly at ease. He wasn't acting like some lovesick fangirl, tugging on his arm every other second and getting in the way. Nor was he being a complete and utter ass. He was acting like they were two kids sitting around on a Friday night with nothing better to do than drink a little beer, eat some pizza, and veg in front of the television. What did surprise him was how much he wanted that, too.

"Okay, so maybe that might not be so much fun but at least if that happened I wouldn't have to worry about you taking incriminating pictures. Can't you just imagine all the fun Yohji-kun would have?"

Aya could and it was enough to make him roll his eyes. Omi snickered again, propping his elbows on the table as his giggles subsided, voice softer, "But I'm really glad it's not Yohji-kun who's here."

The confession was discomfiting, not in the least because he cared to wonder what that meant. Or why he hadn't immediately brushed the comment off and was even now turning it over in his mind, trying decipher all its possible nuances. "It's quieter," he remarked and almost immediately wanted to smack himself. 'It's quieter? That's poetical and somewhat less than articulate. Good job.'

"Yohji-kun doesn't mean any harm. Not really," Omi's blue eyes were so earnest it was painful to behold and he fiddled with his napkin.

"Maybe." Aya really didn't want to have a discussion and possible argument over Yohji of all people.

"He just doesn't know when to stop," Bombay continued, a touch defensive and Aya wanted to sigh in irritation.

"Yes."

Omi opened his mouth, then closed it again, a little quirky smile stealing across his serious expression. Aya watched it, fascinated by how it seemed both sly and coy in the same turn, one corner curling into an appealing moue. "I don't know when to stop, either." Omi admitted.

"No. But it's all right." Aya sat back, intensely aware of the brush of their arms, Omi's shoulder just below his, the easy warmth they generated by their proximity. 'I don't think I asked you to,' he added silently.

Omi tilted his head, chewing on his fingernails absently and Aya reached out, tugging his hand down. The blond twitched, damp fingers clamping around his thumb, and they both froze. Omi dropped his eyes somewhere around the region of his lap, hand limp in his grasp and he very nearly jerked away. To do so would have been rude, far ruder than Omi deserved, and he found himself desperately searching for an out. 'This was a really bad idea.'

"Um."

"Er."

Their awkward clasp untangled with devastating slowness, Aya remaining perfectly still during the process, wondering if Omi would leave, scoot out of his seat and upstairs with some muttered excuse. He wouldn't blame him if he chose to do so.

"It's, uh, a nasty habit I have," Omi offered, "Biting my nails. Not handholding, I mean. Which we weren't and could you say something?"

"What?"

"That you're not going to kill me would be a nice start," Omi muttered under his breath.

"Why would I do that?"

"Hello? Because you're a scary guy who walks around with a sword and makes bad guys wet themselves with just a glance," Omi replied sarcastically and he fought not to flinch at the rather accurate description. "Because I've heard you threaten to kill Yohji and Ken for less --"

"You're not them."

Omi appeared astonished by that admission and Aya with him, the words bypassing his usual caution and deliberation. 'Why here? Why now? And why the hell Tsukiyono Omi?'

"Aya--"

"I'm tired," the redhead announced, sliding to his feet. It was true; he was tired, tired and maybe a little drunk or why else would he behave this way. "I'm going to bed, I think."

Omi's face fell, curiosity still burning sapphire flames but wise enough to bite his tongue and not force the issue. He felt a ripple of disappointment. 'What did you expect?' Aya asked himself. Better, what was he hoping for? It was fragile, this emotion and so distinct from his habitual ire, used to mask a deeper rage, one kept tight underneath a lid of contempt and indifference. Since his parents' death and his sister landing in the hospital, there was precious little in his life that made him feel anything at all beyond that. Omi did and he wasn't certain yet if that were a good or bad thing, the possibilities poised, ready to unfurl but there was still time. Time enough to think and make a decision.

"Aya," He paused, feet shuffling as he craned his neck back to where Omi sat, bathed in split shadow, corn silk hair touched with darker highlights. "The pizza was … It was good."

He paused before nodding his assent. Omi looked heartened by that silent assent, venturing further. "Maybe we can do it again? Eat pizza? If you want?"

"No."

It was amazing how one word could crush someone, make them look so defeated without a single blow being made. "Why not?" Omi's voice was small, weary and he could almost see the youth going over the entire evening in his mind, searching for some offense he had made.

"Because next time I want Thai," Aya answered and left before he could see anything beyond the swift rise of a blond hair towards the spot where he had stood. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he climbed the stairs, tarrying on the landing to listen to the muffled blare of the television, white and blue lights flashing from the darkened doorway. Then he shrugged, hoisting himself with a vicious yank on the banister up the stairs.

***

"Damn it, who drank my Killian's?!"

Omi winced, threading a hand through his unkempt hair as he trudged downstairs, Yohji's voice loud enough they were probably hearing him on the street outside. He heard the refrigerator rocking, the sound of cartons and bottles and plates being shoved around before actually glimpsed Yohji rooting through it. Balinese was just as disheveled as he was, clad only in a pair of loose jeans, black boxers peeking over the rim, long golden locks almost frizzy. More than that, he reeked -- of cigarettes and clubs and a smell Omi had since learned to associate with sex. Ken was pointedly ignoring his vociferous complaints, cleaning off, Omi noted with some guilt, the kitchen table, the pizza box already bent and hanging awkwardly out of a wastebasket. He had meant to get up before any of the others and clean up the mess left by the impromptu pizza party last night, too tired at the time to do much more than blink stupidly for a few minutes after Aya's departure. But sleep, once achieved, proved a harder lure to break than he had anticipated.

Ken caught his eye as he entered the room, darting a quick nod at Yohji's back and making faces. Unlike the other two, the former soccer player was actually dressed for the day, crisp khakis and a polo shirt. 'Another date,' Omi surmised. 'Or maybe the first one seeing as I kinda wrecked that.'

"Morning," Omi announced shooting an apologetic glance at Ken, both for doing the cleaning and for the wrecked date.

"Morning, Omi," Ken replied and he wanted to wince at the neutral tone, lacking enough of his teammate's normal effusiveness to tell him that Siberian was not entirely of the happy with him still.

"Omi!" Yohji whirled around, gesturing wildly at the table, the fridge, and the bottle in his hand, radiating righteous indignation. "Omi, someone drank my beer! And left a mess! My beer! On my shelf! I only had two left and I need them both!"

"Well--"

"Ken says it wasn't him. Aya took my beer! And didn't replace it!"

'And I guess the idea that I might have been the one to take it never occurred to him,' Omi thought with a touch of asperity. Typical. "Yohji-kun, please. We'll buy you more beer."

"Later but I need it now!"

"Why?"

The question stopped the tall blond mid-tirade, "Why is that important?"

"We have a houseguest," Ken answered for him. "She's upstairs in the shower."

Yohji at least had the decency to look sheepish after shooting Ken a dirty look. "I live here, too! I can bring whoever I want home."

"Yohji-kun, we've been through this," Omi was kind but firm, happy that he was the one to handle this. With Aya there might have been some growling and possibly some shoving. "Bringing women back here is a bad idea. What if they start poking around? Or overhear something they shouldn't? Or worse, run into Manx?"

"Not to mention, the possibility that it could be an undercover agent trying to get dirt on us," he continued, ignoring the pout Balinese was directing at him. "None of us cares what goes on in your free time but it needs to stay out of the shop. I don't see why this is a problem and don't think you're not included in this, Hidaka Ken."

Ken's shock was a little too contrived to be taken seriously, the man lacking Yohji's skills to make a puppy cry. Tugging at his t-shirt, Omi sighed, glaring at the both of them, tempted to wag a finger but refraining. He was only seventeen -- why did he have to be the adult in the house? The reasonable adult, he amended with a quick thought to Aya. "I ran into… What was her name? Kari? Kira?"

"Kiri," Yohji replied helpfully, Ken's brow twitching with the effort to rein in his temper.

"--Kiri. She said to tell you she left her underwear and lipstick on your nightstand and could you please get them back to her? Oh and that it's been a week and why haven't you called her?"

"Got it," Ken's cheeks reddened and he sounded vaguely scandalized. "It was just once. It's not like I make a habit of it like Don Juan here."

"I just don't see why this is a problem," Omi interjected before Yohji could, crossing his arms as he peered down his nose at them. "Aya manages to follow the rules. I've yet to even see him out with a girl, let alone bring her here."

Ken choked, nearly dropping the papers in his hand, a slow knowing smirk dawning on Yohji's face as he closed the refrigerator, leaning against door and patting his jeans as if to search for a cigarette. Neither of them said aside from a long visual exchange passing over his head, Ken's dark eyes a trifle wild, as if the conversation had just taken a turn he didn't know how to handle.

"What?" Omi asked in confusion. "What did I say?"

Scratching his nose, Yohji rolled his shoulders, his smirk growing to shit-eating proportions. "Nothing really. You're really right when you say Aya's never brought a girl home."

"Okay, I'm really not seeing where this is going," Omi snapped. "You guys are way too hard on him. You should cut him some slack."

"*We're* too hard on *him*?" Ken repeated, astonished. "Have you seen him? Have you listened to him? Most of the time *he's* bitching at *us*."

Yohji said nothing, his eyes narrowing as they raked over Omi. His steady gaze shifted over Bombay to the pizza box in the trash can, now forlornly stuffed in the plastic bin then back to the beer in his hand. "Someone's holding out on us," he drawled, singsong.

"Huh?"

"Gee, can we be anymore vague about this," Omi's voice was hard, defiant and defensive, the happier vibes of the evening before dispelled by tension in the atmosphere which he didn't understand in the slightest.

"I get that he's your partner and partners have to stick together but I'm thinking there's a little more to it than that. Like my beer being drank and that mysterious pizza someone neglected to share with us," Yohji observed. "Then again, maybe it wasn't for us. "

"Look, I'm sorry the damn beer was taken. I'll replace it. Now can we just let it go?"

"Tell me something, Omi. Did you buy that pizza or did Aya?" Yohji asked.

"Omi and -- Aya?" Ken seemed dumbstruck.

"It was just pizza. I really don't see what the big deal is!"

"You had pizza with Aya," Ken shared another glance with Yohji, fairly rife with all sorts of unspoken intimations.

"Omi?" Yohji prodded.

"He brought me pizza. God, what is it with you two? What's the trauma? You act like he was plotting to do horrible things to my body."

That earned him twin expressions of discomfort, Ken intent on the floor as Yohji scratched his chin, using the other hand to run the bottle across his forehead. Neither of them however would directly meet his gaze.

"What?" His voice raised, thick with exasperation, Ken raising his head in response, face stretched like so much plastic and appearing for all the world as if he wish the floor he had so recently been burning a hole in would open up and swallow him.

"Omi," Ken started and then hesitated. "How well would you say you know Aya?"

The question was strange, even more odd was the sickly tint to Ken's skin as he asked. "About as well as anyone of us, I guess. Why?"

"And you've never wondered what he does in his spare time?"

"What you mean is who he does," Yohji snipped, very calmly unscrewing the cap of his beer and taking a swig.

"Yohji," Ken warned the other with outright menace. "Don't make this anymore difficult--"

"I don't understand," The words were slow, mirroring the bewilderment he felt, that must surely be evident to his friends. He didn't understand why they didn't just come out and say whatever it was they were trying to hint at.

"Aya, he --" Ken groped for the words, his helplessness echoing Omi's puzzlement.

"--doesn't like women," Yohji finished for him.

"Yohji!" Ken squawked, fist upraised and shaking at him. For his part, the blond Balinese was unfazed by the gesture, tapping his fingers around the squat curve of his bottle.

"I don't --" Omi tried again, voice weak.

"He likes the menfolk!" Yohji chortled, far too gleeful about the entire matter.

"Yohji, shut up!" Ken shouted at him.

"Oh come on. Someone had to say it and if you're going to be pansy-assed about it, then that leaves me. It's not like it's this great secret. We've both seen him work the scene. It's not like he's trying to hide it."

"Yes, but maybe this is a conversation that they should have had," Ken hissed. "I really don't want to die."

Yohji made a rude noise in the back of his throat. "Like that's going to happen. Inscrutable boy deigning to tell us mere mortals anything?" Catching Omi's eye, he raised his free hand, ticking off with his fingers, "Sorry to burst your bubble, kid but he's queer, he's gay, he's flaming, he's a ponce, he's -- Oh hi, Aya."

***End