Nice to Know You
A Weiss Kreuz fanfic
By Amet and Sephy

"I've been watching you from a distance,
The distance sees through your disguise."
--Evanescence

The elevator shaft was dark, painfully narrow and stuffy as hell but for an updraft of stale air pushed in by the movement of the main elevators below. Omi was grateful that his training had drained him of any claustrophobic inclinations as he perched in cramped quarters atop a disabled freight elevator, prying at the escape hatch with sweaty hands and wedging himself inside. His computer hit the floor first, falling with a dull metallic clang against cheap carpet fibers before his sneakers landed alongside it with a muffled thump. He smiled to himself as he plucked the battered machine from the floor and pulled it open--one of the major perks of being Persia’s protégé was the unlimited resources that made it feasible to kick around expensive equipment with impunity. The elevator’s control panel was easy enough to navigate, a few loose bolts and a few good kicks popping it open, and rearranging and rerouting the electrical system was a simple matter, movements made almost automatic by experience. From here he would patch into the computer and hopefully jury-rig something to gain control of the passenger elevators below.

The others were already in position waiting for his signal to begin herding their mark towards the elevators, Aya prowling the grounds outside while Yohji and Ken mingled among the guests at the party inside the hotel’s massive ballroom. He could hear Yohji laughing through his earpiece, that particularly obsequious chortle he used when he was talking to women that made Omi wonder how any of them could stand to be around him for an extended period of time. Ken’s annoyed hiss broke across the line in its wake, muttering something about overzealous romantics as Yohji’s laugh reached a painful pitch, snapping a short reprimand at the taller boy as he stopped to serve a drink to a partygoer. Omi switched his mic off as he stifled a snicker, hooking pirated lines into his laptop as he listened in grateful isolation to his teammates’ antics. They were supposed to be waiters, but putting Yohji in a room full of finely dressed women and expecting him to concentrate was asking the impossible, despite his earlier protests to the contrary when Aya had oh-so-bluntly pointed that out at mission briefing. Omi was needed at point, and Aya had neither the patience nor the social skills to be around that many people with a katana hidden beneath his clothes, so that left Ken and Yohji with the job of infiltration. He had a feeling Yohji was enjoying himself a little too much, but there was little he could do about it from twenty feet away beyond snickering into his teammates’ earpieces, and that wouldn’t have accomplished much beyond some affronted grumbling and a possible reprimand from Aya.

Their target was an arms dealer, the kind of indiscriminate bastard who sold whatever he could get his hands on to whomever was willing to pay for it, a man whose product line had somehow single-handedly escalated a minor turf dispute between two urban gangs into an all-out war. The kind of dime a dozen thug Weiss usually ignored who had gotten lucky and managed to trigger a bloodbath gruesome enough to make even Manx’s inscrutable mask slip as Persia read off the figures. Even Yohji’s usual carelessness disappeared sometime during their mentor’s presentation, and the usual hesitancy that followed mission requests was absent as Manx silently handed out dossiers on one Marimoto Hiroki. Not that it really changed anything. People died every day and the members of Weiss were forever allowing their employers to rub their noses in it. It didn’t stop the world from turning, or Yohji and Ken from descending into bickering and Omi was grateful for that, that stunted sense of normalcy among the deluge. Maybe even envied it a little that they could let go, if only superficially.

"Weiss, this is Bombay. I am now patched into the electrical systems. We are a go."

"Balinese, report."

"Yo, kiddo!" Yohji’s overly cheerful voice crackled into his mic. "Give my regards to Persia for hooking us up with this one, the ladies out here are /hot/."

"Siberian?"

"I’m here, Bombay." He could hear the faint clinking of glasses as Ken made his way around the ballroom, the soft murmur of voices on the periphery. "When we’re done, you’re gonna need to confiscate my weapon or I am not responsible for what I do to Romeo over here."

"Aw," Yohji whined, "don’t you love me anymore, Ken-kun?"

Ken sighed. "Don’t you ever stop?"

Omi smiled, eyes tracking the code scrolling across his screen as the computer subverted the passenger elevator’s controls. "Abyssinian, report."

Ken and Yohji’s bickering cut off abruptly, and Omi resisted the urge to laugh as he realized that his companions had probably forgotten their quiet leader was on the line. He could imagine the scowl on Aya’s face as their argument progressed, the way porcelain pale skin bunched between his eyebrows when he was annoyed, head hanging ever so slightly as he listened in on their altercation. There would be reprimands later, Omi decided, scathing remarks and angry rebuttals as Yohji, who had never bothered to hold his temper with Aya, fought back.

"Abyssinian?" he repeated, his own brow knotting as the line stilled but for the occasional crackle of interference.

Aya had a nasty habit of shutting off his communications equipment when he went into stealth mode, a practice that had an unfortunate tendency to cut them off from each other at the most inopportune moment. There were times when Omi seriously wondered if Aya somehow managed to forget that he was part of a team and not some lone vigilante. It had taken him nearly a week of constant pestering to convince Aya that while he might not want to alert the enemy to his presence by chatting across the line (as if Aya would ever /chat/, anyway) during missions, it was better for all concerned if he would at least oblige them by leaving his earpiece on to avoid any oversights if one of them ran into trouble. It wasn’t much when the man still refused to answer Omi’s summons unless he was backed against a wall, but the sense of honor that impelled Aya to make sure they all made it out of their missions alive at least gave Omi hope that he didn’t detest them as much as Yohji liked to insist.

Omi sighed, tapping at the floor impatiently as he watched coding scroll across his screen. "Abyssinian," he huffed, "you have exactly two minutes to report before I start calling your real name over the com."

He could hear Ken’s snicker and Yohji’s quiet snort, then the staccato snap of a microphone being activated. Aya grunted; a muted, pained sound as the metallic clang of his katana striking /something/ echoed across the line. There was shouting, another grunt as Aya panted into his mic, and the sibilance of shuffling steps before a pause long enough for his partner to shout.

"I’m a little /busy/, Bombay!"

The staccato crack of gunfire trailed across the line, obliterating whatever else Aya might have said as it neared his partner’s location. Omi froze in trepidation, held perfectly still as the adrenaline rush hit. It didn’t matter, there was no way to help Aya entombed as he was, and attempting to talk about it was only going to distract the man when argument was the last thing he needed.

"Guys?" he murmured, voice small and frightened even to his own ears.

"I’m on it, Bombay." Ken’s voice was assured, but hushed, as if he too were afraid to break the cadence of clanging sound from above. Omi imagined him setting down his tray, moving silently through the crowd of partygoers to the staircase beside the elevators, slipping his claw from beneath his jacket as he readied himself for battle. Yohji would stay behind, as much as Omi wanted to protest his own inaction they couldn’t all abandon their posts because Aya was in trouble, if they tipped off Marimoto there was a chance they’d not get another crack at him for months. Aya wouldn’t have wanted that.

And he seriously needed to stop thinking about what Aya /would/ have wanted like his partner was already dead. Hysterics weren’t going to get any of them out of this alive, and he was point, for Christ’s sake, he needed to keep a clear head to guide the others if the mission went any further awry. He opened up another computer program, this one hooked into his teammates’ communications pieces, little blips of neon light superimposing themselves onto the schematics of the hotel as he watched. He couldn’t see Aya’s assailants, but his movements were erratic, swinging wildly from one corner of the roof to the other as he faced them. He was probably outnumbered, and Omi scarcely allowed himself to breathe until the little blip that was Ken burst from the staircase, leaping clear across the roof to join Aya.

"Shit!" he swore, and another sound echoed across the line as Ken was maneuvered away from their partner’s location, the droning hum of a motor against the whish-whish backdrop of a fan. "Hey Balinese, notice anything missing in there?"

"Funny you should mention that, Siberian!" The little blip that was Yohji was already moving, tearing up the stairs at breakneck speed as Omi sputtered into his mike. "I’m assuming he’s with you?"

"Wait--Balinese, what are you talking about?"

"Marimoto." Aya’s voice was a strained hiss crackling across his hearing. "He’s escaping."

He was in motion before the conscious thought was even registering, throwing the elevator into gear and fumbling for the darts he’d hidden beneath his jacket. He palmed the deadly instruments, hastily pulling plastic caps from sharpened edges with his teeth, knitting them between his fingers in readiness. It wouldn’t do to poke himself, the poison soaked into the weapons potent enough to paralyze a grown man in seconds, never mind a skinny seventeen year old and he didn’t fancy the idea of dying in an elevator shaft because he’d been too overconfident to lend the deceptively tiny weapons the respect they deserved. He shot from the elevator before the doors had fully opened, computer open and forgotten as he rushed towards the stairwell, nearly colliding with Yohji as the taller boy rounded the last landing. The door was summarily destroyed as they came to it, kicking it outward and rolling in opposite directions to escape the sudden pelting of bullets attracted by the noise. The sudden commotion distracted their assailants, a team of bodyguards apparently trying to protect Marimoto from Aya’s advance, enough for Ken and Aya to find cover, pulling them around as Yohji tossed a garrote to Ken and used it to trip several of their assailants. Omi watched as Aya popped up again, brashly inserting himself between Marimoto and the helicopter he was desperately trying to reach, eyes blazing and blood dripping from a nasty gash running the length of his arm from elbow to wrist. Pandemonium erupted as Ken launched himself at the guard closest to Marimoto, Yohji following from the other side, leaving Omi a perfect opening at Marimoto.

Omi fell into a throwing stance, leaving the safety of the alcove he’d tucked under long enough to lock eyes with Aya, who nodded faintly as he let the darts fly.

***

"No."

"Oh for God's sake, Aya, hold still," The cotton swab hovered, hand swaying before darting towards its target and missing yet again, this time his wrist caught at an awkward angle, a not so gentle squeeze telling him to back off. "You're bleeding all over yourself," Omi tried again, testing if not quite straining against his teammate's grip before glancing down. "Not to mention the floor. I am not cleaning up by the way."

Stony purple stared back at him, those full lips not so much downturned as a completely slash, reminding him of some Saturday morning cartoon character on a tear. Omi worked hard not to roll his eyes, realizing that in this case that would get him nothing except more stubborn, monosyllabic resistance. "Breaking my arm is not going to help and Persia will kill you if I can't type for the next couple of months."

Still nothing except a muffled tittering and as much as he wanted to add his glare to the weight of the one Aya was now tossing over his shoulder at Yohji, he found his eyes drawn to the serrated gape of flesh running lengthwise from Aya's elbow to wrist, fair skin subsumed in a wash of crimson, dripping to floor in fat splatters. Didn't it worry him, to leave it so unattended as it bled freely, the cut deep enough he could see tendon and stringy muscle? He felt his skin prickle in commiseration, stomach knotting as he leaned his head in for a closer examination. He couldn't tell conclusively, probably wouldn't be able to until he cleaned it, but stitches might be needed. Providing they could get Aya to sit still long enough to deal with the problem. Didn't it hurt even a little? He wondered, marveling that his partner could be so resistant to aid. If so, Aya never let on besides a few grunts whenever someone or something jarred the arm he held protectively against himself. He wasn't quite sure why but the man had a fierce, innate reluctance to let anyone else patch him up if he was still conscious and mobile enough to slink off. It wasn't the first time they'd had one of these melodramatic confrontations, the Abyssinian more often than not managing to bolt on all but the more serious wounds. The last time this had happen, it had been a stray bullet through the shoulder and it had taken both Yohji and Ken sitting on top of the man to keep him still long enough to be bandaged up. After which Yohji had informed Omi that if he wanted to corner a wounded cat again, he could do it himself. This of course was followed by much whining for days after on how Aya had hurt him by throwing him to the floor so hard. Really, he didn't understand why Yohji had to complain so much, it wasn't as if he hadn't milked the entire situation to his advantage, preying on the sympathies of every girl within a ten mile radius.

He wiggled his fingers, now numbing at the tips, elbow bent just so his shoulder protested even that movement. Sucking in a breath, Omi shoved his face nose to nose with his recalcitrant partner, a near indiscernible flinch in the fingers holding him, telling that he had surprised the man if nothing else. "If you don't let me go," Omi's voice was even, calm, "I'll bite you and we can see if you want treatment for that as well."

Yohji snickered and Omi thought he heard Ken snort but kept his eyes fixed.

Lilac flickered, "I'm fine."

"Not if you don't let me go, you won't be," Omi replied pleasantly. "This is only going to go one way, Aya-kun. I AM going to treat you and if we have to bash each other's brains into do it, then so be it."

"Might want to listen to him, Abyssinian. I think he means it," Yohji advised.

"Shut up, Balinese."

"Why is everyone picking on me tonight?"

"Because you're an idiot."

"Om~ii, Ken called me an idiot!"

"Yohji, if you're not going to help--"

"I helped! I did! I told him to play nice. Omi, you heard me, right?"

Now he did allow himself the luxury of rolling his eyes, tilting his head at Aya quizzically. "I don't know about you but I don't want to stand around here listening to these two all night, do you?"

He ignored the indignant wuffles of sound and air behind his head, no warning given as he found himself released, rocking on his heels as he sought to regain his balance. Had it been anyone else, he might have claimed they were pouting but not Aya, the remote and glacial Abyssinian. The redhead's cheeks puffed, his eyes tracking some point to Omi's left as he clutched his knee, not quite slumping on the stool. "Fine."

It was probably pointless but he smiled his thanks, rolling his shoulder and wryly wishing that Aya weren't so damned difficult. His whole arm was numb and the last thing he wanted was to hurt the man because simple motor coordination was beyond him. 'Not that it,' he grimaced, plucking up the rubbing alcohol, 'was going to be a problem in any case.' Setting both it and the swab to the side, he reached out, gently prying Aya's fisted arm away from his chest, mourning the ruined shirt that no amount of Chlorox was going to clean. Those jeans were going to be to trash too, he made note, the light denim fabric already stiff with browning blood.

"Oh Aya, you really did do a number on yourself, didn't you?" he sighed, dabbing the swab against the lip of the alcohol bottle.

"I was careless."

Recognizing that for the chastisement it was, he peeked up through a fringe of bangs as he began cleaning the injury. "I doubt that. These things happen, comes with the trade--"

"No," Aya growled, his hand clenching, blood seeping forward over the cleaned area as the muscles contracted, "I wasn't paying attention like I should have been. I was careless. I nearly compromised the mission."

"Oh, will you lighten up, please?" Yohji sniffed. "You act like you were the only one out there. It could have been any of us."

"But it wasn't you."

"We can go around and around on this but does it really matter? We won one for the side of truth and good," Ken injected. He hunched down, elbows resting atop the table, almost but not quite slouching across it, his dress shirt awry and tie hanging off one shoulder. "Same result, mark's dead. Mission accomplished."

"Maybe it's the same for you but I see things differently," Aya said.

Christ, he wanted to beat his head against the wall sometimes. They were all safe and sound (well, more or less in Aya's case) and they were standing around arguing about the success or lack there of the assignment. He didn't even care that they had won one for the good guys. Winning didn't mean anything if you were dead. Those few minutes trapped in the elevator with nothing but the sound of Aya's uneven breathing followed by the clash of a katana and the reply of gunfire had affected him. It had shaken him because he knew they were just like him, flesh and blood, easily broken and mended. There were times though when Aya seemed to cross that line into something more -- not quite immortal but a force nonetheless. Unstoppable. A divine reckoning with hair almost the color of the blood he spilt. Having to wait, half afraid that any attempts at communication with his partner would result in some negative outcome in the life and death struggle playing out in his imagination with only his ears as witness had been more than just difficult. It had been damn near impossible and it frightened him to realize how close he had come to abandoning his post (and thereby the mission) to see if he could do, could effect the outcome in anyway at all. He didn't see how Persia or anyone else could fault him for that. Like it or not, Aya was a member of the team and they were all they had, the closest thing to a family Omi had ever had. Even if that was a thought he didn't dare give voice to yet.

"Can we just not argue about this?" Omi punctuated his words by rubbing a swath of alcohol across the wound, a slight hitch in Aya's breathing the only sign of discomfort. He tossed the stained cotton to the side with the growing pile, reaching for the gauze and bandages as he pronounced. "You need stitches but that's a bit much to expect, huh?"

Aya held his tongue, staring as if the boy were speaking a foreign language. "Fine," Omi unsnapped the roll, surgical scissors snipping through the tough filmy material. "No stitches but we're changing these every few hours and if it looks like you're not healing or getting an infection or not even scabbing in a normal way, your ass is going to the first emergency room I can find."

"God, Omi. You sound like an old woman," Yohji snickered, a stream of smoke from a freshly lit cigarette catching in his mouth and nose unexpectedly, Omi's eyes watering in response. "Are you going to bathe and feed him next?"

He felt a blush creep up his neck and shoulders, pointedly not looking at Aya which gave him a grand view of Ken smacking the back of their blond teammate's head. He felt awkward all of the sudden, clumsy as he held the bandage in place, tightening the wrap and trying not to wince at the darkening stain against off-white. "Shut up, Yohji." The response was half-hearted, not one of the witty or amusing things he could have said, that Yohji might have come up with but then again, on the spot sparkling repartee was just not his thing. Better to just finish the job and not give Yohji anything else to make sport of.

"There," he announced, taping down the end and sitting back on his haunches. Aya lifted his arm, twisting it back and to until Omi wanted to stop him mid-turn, fingers twitching in response. At this rate, Aya was going to be changing dressings every hour. "I think it would be better if you didn't do much with that arm for the next 72 hours. Maybe longer. I can get you a sling if you want."

"No need," Came the smooth reply, jerking gray-colored sleeves down over the injury. Aya picked up his katana from where it lay against the door, slinging it to rest against his shoulder as he sauntered out of the room.

"You're welcome!" Ken shouted after him, apparently no more amused by the Abyssinian's behavior than Omi was. "Jesus, try to help some people and that's the thanks you get."

Omi shrugged, gathering up the medical kit and wrinkling his nose as he swept used cottons into the bin next to the table. "I didn't do it because I wanted thanks, Ken."

The deflection did little to stop his friend who was clearly warming to the subject. "That's beside the point. If you'd left it up to that son of a bitch, we'd be shuffling his ass off to the hospital because he was too stupid and thick-headed to get fixed up properly."

"That's just Aya's way of showing how little we mean to him," Yohji flicked his cigarette butt, Omi glaring as the spray of ash narrowly missed him. "There's no sense in getting angry about it. You might just as well yell at the sky for being blue."

"I don't think that's necessarily true," Omi disagreed, juggling with the kit and peroxide bottle as he reached for the knob of the shelf above his head. Yohji took another vicious drag before taking pity on him, reaching and popping the latch with deft fingers.

"What, you can yell at the sky for being blue?" The blond assassin leaned back against the stove, cigarette aloft in one hand and the other tapping with restless abandon against his hip. Casual demeanor aside, Yohji was edgy, the cigarette only a momentary distraction from the excitement still lingering, blood pumping because there was no greater rush than throwing your life on the line and winning. They all dealt with it in their own way, the rush and then the letdown, body craving an outlet, a narcotic stronger than the danger, anything to distract from the siren's call of the night world. For Yohji it was fast cars, women, and cigarettes, not necessarily in that order. Having started on one of those already, the rest of the evening was likely to see him vanish finding the arms of some willing female to sate those fears and unnamed desires in, not to be seen again until the afternoon, when he could put back on the presentable façade of flirty playboy, incorrigible but harmless.

"Aya cares," Omi insisted, then floundered when both Ken and Yohji quirked twin quizzical brows at him, light and dark, "It's just in his own way."

"Right," Yohji agreed, sounding totally unconvinced.

"You don't have to make excuses for him, you know," Ken scratched the back of his neck, another sour glance thrown towards the door. "I know he's your partner --"

"Yeah, he is."

It came out more defensive than he had intended, the cabinet slamming shut with an creaky thud. He was surprised to find himself tensing up, voice acquiring a snappish quality that crackled in the air. Rubbing the heel of his palm into his eyes, he felt his chest expanded, thick and slow with the effort of breathing normally, pulse jumping in a machine gun tattoo against his chest and neck.

Ken held his hands out. "Take it easy, Omi. I didn't mean anything by that. It's just that Aya… Well, he is a bit of a cold fish."

There was that, Omi acknowledged silently. Aya was neither warm nor inviting in his dealings with them, occasionally downright hostile towards Yohji if the two of them were left alone long enough. He tolerated Omi because they were partners and perhaps because he didn't set out to bait the man as Yohji did. His relationship with Ken was sticky, mainly because they didn't have a relationship outside the mission or the forced enclosure of the flower shop, neither going out of their way to seek out each other's company. Ken was far too interested and busy with his kids at the Rec Center to deal very long with Abyssinian's peculiarities. It bothered Omi because as trite as it seemed, he liked them all and he wanted them to depend on each other, to see each other as friends, as he saw them. A miracle that didn't seem too likely to happen any time soon.

"Sorry, Ken. I guess… I--I'm just jumpy and tired. Don't pay me any mind," Omi laughed wishing it didn't sound so forced.

The cool leather of a gloved hand ruffled his hair, a slick weight as it rested on his head, Yohji’s eyes twinkling as he peered down at him. "What you need, kiddo, is to relax. I’m thinking lots of Jim Bean and the shortest micro-mini we can find. What do you say?"

"Yohji," Ken sounded nothing short of disapproving, and Omi bristled just a bit. It wasn’t that he particularly wanted to go out with Yohji. Boozing and hitting the Red Light district really wasn’t his thing but he despised the implication he might not be old or wise enough to handle himself in that situation.

"Oh grow up, Ken," Yohji sniffed. "He’s seventeen. When I was seventeen I was racing cars by day and playing all night. It’ll do him some good. Put a little hair on his chest and a swagger in his step."

"That’s what I’m afraid of. One of you is bad enough."

"I resemble that remark. And maybe you’d like to tell us what you do in your free time, Ken. I’m pretty sure it’s not all soccer and helping needy kids. In fact, I seem to recall a night not too long ago, right after the Hirohachi case. She was blond and her friend was-"

"Shit, Yohji. I told you not to bring that up again." Omi wasn’t sure which one of them was redder - he for getting the insinuation or Ken in his mounting irritation. His eyes flickered on Omi sheepishly. "I just-had a little too much to drink."

"Aww, you're so cute when you're embarrassed, Ken-kun," Yohji fluttered his eyelashes dramatically. "No wonder you're so popular with the girls."

"Yohji, I'm warning you--"

He left them arguing there, their voices echoing across the linoleum tiling the kitchen, hardly muffled by the thin sheath of plaster walls. Yohji derived too much enjoyment out of baiting Ken for this to end any time soon. And as entertaining as that could be, he wasn't in the mood for it tonight, fatigue and the after effects of worry finally starting to set in. He felt drained and there was still a report to Persia to make and like it or not, that wasn't something he could put off. The last time he'd done something like that, Manx had come pounding on their door in the middle of the night, Aya rousing him out of a sound slumber to deal with the concerned, then irate agent. Maybe a shower would be a good idea, or pocky or something to keep him awake and coherent long enough for information to be exchanged. In that respect, the others had it far luckier than he did, not having to worry about reporting in on a semi-constant basis nor the sinking feeling that some of Persia's requests amounted to little more than spying on his comrades. He understood how important it was not to jeopardize the team and thereby their missions but having to unobtrusively monitor his friends was more than just creepy, it felt downright wrong. No one seemed to suspect as of yet and he was grateful for that small blessing, terrified of what that knowledge might do to his relationships with the others. No more goofy banter with Yohji or long talks with Ken and Aya… Omi shuddered. Aya really would hate him.

'If he doesn't already,' he amended bleakly, Yohji's words rolling around in his head again.

Damn Yohji for putting that idea in his head. It was not a subject he wanted to dwell on but he found himself coming back to it, trying to figure out what he might have done or said to possibly offend, what any of them had done to make Aya keep his distance. True, Yohji could be abrasive but he wasn't a bad guy and Ken was one of the few genuinely nice guys he'd ever met. No, whatever wall Aya had constructed to keep between them had to have less to do with them and more with something else, some big unknown secret. God knew they all had them; his lips quirked wryly, thinking perhaps that having a dark, painful past was a requirement for being in Weiss. That commonality aside, it wasn't like he could just walk up to his teammate and go, "Hi. You seem hell-bent on keeping the rest of us at arm's length and I was just wondering what's up with that." Omi snorted. 'Oh yea, that would go over so well. I can just imagine the look on his face the five seconds before he knocks me on my ass.'

He slowed noticing the door to Aya's room was ajar, dim light blossoming into the hall. For anyone else, that might have been an invite to come in, maybe even chat but with his taciturn partner that was taking one liberty too many. After their little production in kitchen, he was probably the last person Aya wanted to see and given the circumstances and his mood, it might be best to let things be for tonight. It wasn't enough to stop him from peering inward, slipping unconsciously into stealth mode as he tried to inch closer without attracting any attention. As it turned out, he didn't have to, the bed and room immaculate save for the katana and jacket thrown on the bed. No sign of Aya though. He scooted closer, cautious as he took a step just inside the room so that he was able to see around the half-drawn door. What he saw both gave him pause and made him aware of just how intrusive he was being.

Aya was sitting in the sill of his window, one slender leg planted on the floor the other in the window frame, his body curled just so his knee was upraised, injured arm cradled against his chest. His good hand kneaded and stroked the bandages, a hiss of pain escaping through clenched teeth. Omi cursed himself for not remembering to offer his teammate some sort of painkiller, even if the best he could come up with on short notice was extra strength Tylenol. Better that than Yohji's all-purpose solution, which was to drink until you didn't feel anything. Ken had actually tried that one and had spent the next two days afterward with his head over the toilet and a mild case of alcohol poisoning.

Still it was rare to see Aya like this, posture relaxed and unguarded, his head was turned, shadows inky against ivory skin as his eyes stared outward at something Omi couldn't see. It was rare to see Aya expressing anything milder than regal disdain, perfect features carved in sharp porcelain angles. He felt something in him loosen, warming to the sight and realizing that in order to preserve it, he should turn around and go before he was noticed. This time wasn't his, it was private and had Aya wanted company he would have sought someone out. So why was it he found himself slipping further in, clutching the door knob and half-afraid he was about to get the reaming of his life but doing little more than steeling himself for that eventuality?

"Hey," he spoke softly, hoping not to startle Aya with his presence and regretful that he had to shatter such a peaceful moment.

He thought perhaps his greeting was unheard or worse, ignored and he started to leave when Aya asked, "Was there something you wanted?"

Aya's voice sounded strange, less tense, almost reflective and he poked his head around the door again, leaning against it as he twisted the knob around in his hand. "I just wanted to see if you were okay."

That seemed to baffle the other man, voice perplexed as he responded, "I'm --"

"Fine. Yes, I know," he let go of the door, instead jamming his hands in his windbreaker pockets and surveying his surroundings.

This was the first time he had actually been allowed inside what Yohji so quaintly dubbed "The Fortress of Solitude," a reference that had made Ken laugh so hard he'd snorted soda out of his nose. Most of the time the door was kept shut whether Aya was in or not and he had to admit to some curiosity on what the Abyssinian's living space would be like. He had somehow convinced himself it would be nothing more than a few sticks of furniture and a few clothes hanging forlornly in the closet. Instead, he found himself pleasantly surprised, pivoting on his heel as he took everything in. Like the black lacquer chest in the corner, a gold leaf Chinese scene etched in, the fiery wings of a Phoenix licking upward and over the corners and along the curving top edges. He had no idea how Aya had managed to sneak something that big in without his seeing it but he gave the man points for resourcefulness. The short katanas and kendo sticks on the walls… Well, he expected those, Aya seeming to see in his sword some unholy sense of salvation and justice. The silk screen was unexpected, a delicate array of paper mache and streaking lines of black paint on translucent rice paper. There were bookcases, not nearly enough though as he noticed the overflow stacked near the head of the bed, the spines of green felt especially prominent. He recognized those slim volumes having observed Aya hunched over one from time to time, journals that it wasn't worth his life to touch no matter how he might itch to read their contents. As intriguing as they were, they failed to hold his attention the way the china doll on the dresser did. It was such a little thing, a child's toy and yet it moved him. Neatly braided black hair tumbled down the front of a peach yukata, stained, singed as if had been too near a fire. The eyes were large, an unusual shade of blue in a powdered face, a thin crack running from ear to chin. His hand lifted of its own accord, hovering before falling away. It seemed rude, almost profane to disturb it, clearly an item of some importance from the careful set of its position, away from the ledge and fixed to a stand. There was significance there, one he didn't understand and he briefly entertained the notion of trying to hack Persia's files on them before shaking his head. To do so would be a gross invasion of Aya's privacy and it wouldn't mean anything if he took the story without earning it.

Heavy-lidded eyes regarded him thoughtfully as he shifted, acutely aware that he had been staring--gaping, really while Aya was patiently waiting. For what, he wasn't sure. Still, he felt uncomfortable as if he had been privy to something he should not have seen and maybe one of those wickedly sharp katanas was going to find a use in separating his greedy head from the rest of him.

"I'm sorry."

It was odd how the easy the words came, so quick he didn’t notice their passage until they had flown. He couldn't even say what he was apologizing for -- the mission, the wound, the others? Or maybe the doll on the dresser and whatever had made Aya shut himself off from the rest of the world. He felt them all, tiny shards that refused to assemble into the proper picture and even without knowing, he meant the words.

Aya tilted his head back, the glint of a dangling gold earring sparking in the gloom. Save for that and the unearthly coloration of his hair and skin, he was submerged in shadow, gray shirt and black jeans blending perfectly in the outline of night. "It doesn't matter."

"Doesn't it?"

Indigo eyes bored into his, pinning him with a searching gaze before shrugging. "There's nothing you could do anyway."

"That's not what I asked."

Okay, apparently he had slipped into some weird alternate universe where he regularly talked back to Aya in a no bullshit tone, demanding and expecting answers. Moreover, Aya appeared to be considering the whole thing.

"It matters," That quiet tone hardened. "I just don't understand why you act like you care."

"Well, duh. Maybe that's because I do!" Omi snapped then froze, the voice of common sense smacking itself upside its proverbial head. His feet rocked, tempted to back up a step. "What I mean is, you're my friend, Aya--"

"Let's not pretend this is anything more than it is. We're partners," The Abyssinian was cold in his relentlessness, Omi's heart sinking in response. So Yohji was right after all. "We're on the same side. That doesn't equate to us being friends."

"No, I guess not," He wished that he had stayed out. At least then he could have clung to some illusion that these people surrounding him were going to be more than transitory, that they gave a damn beyond their quips and oddities. He didn't know why he wanted Aya's approval so very much, hurt beyond words by the man's callousness. "Why did you invite me in then? Why not just tell me to go away if I bother you so much."

He caught himself mid-tirade. What was the point anyway? He shook his head, feet shuffling, so eager to leave that he almost tripped over himself.

"Omi."

One little word, his name, and the power it had was amazing, turning him as if he were caught by an invisible string, hands clenched into fists as he gnawed on his lip. Waiting, wondering what other cruel trick the other man had in store.

"I didn't say you bothered me," Aya's voice was low, hesitant. For the first time, Omi glimpsed something solid, tangible in the flicker of emotions across his face, incomprehension and awkwardness fighting a brief war. "I just said we weren't friends."

He opened his mouth to retort that yes, his hearing was still fairly good when there was an almost shy, gruff continuance. "We go on missions together and we live together but I don't know you. And you don't know me. So how can we be friends?"

Omi blinked, never having thought of it in quite that way. He was used to being put off, often ignored but Aya wasn't doing that. He wasn't exactly throwing his arms wide and welcoming Omi but at least he hadn't dismissed him out of hand either. He turned the question over in his mind, uneasy to find that he wasn't sure that he had an answer for the man. "I don't know," he replied, feeling helpless.

"Neither do I."

The words were a whisper, dry and dusty as if it had clawed its way out of Aya's chest. It wasn't like Aya to make such an admission, to admit to anything less than utter surety and Omi didn't know whether to be disturbed or comforted by it. He fidgeted, sneakers digging circles into the carpet, giving it some thought before smacking his fist against his open palm.

"We should have pizza."

To say that Aya's expression was surprised wouldn't do it justice. Pole-axed was a better term. Just completely and utterly thrown for a loop. Omi bit the inside of his lip to keep down the hysteria-tinged giggle threatening to break the seriousness of the moment. Lacing his fingers behind his head, he hopped from foot to foot. "Yes, that's it. Friends have pizza, don't they? We can sit around and play video games or maybe watch a couple of movies. And we can make fun of them if they're bad and --"

He lowered his arms, suddenly self-conscious. "I mean, if you want. Some time."

Puzzlement melted away, Aya's expression almost gentle as he nodded. "Some time."

"I'll hold you to that," Omi waggled his finger, grinning insanely. He probably looked like an idiot but what did it matter? He had proven Yohji wrong; Aya didn't hate them, he was just shy. 'Or something,' Omi amended. Socially inept? That sounded worse somehow. Issues? 'Okay, Omi. Stop while you're ahead.' He became aware that Aya was studying him, amethyst eyes intent as they raked over him, his gaze almost speculative.

"Um…Hi. Did I do something?" he asked nervously.

Aya stared a moment longer, eyes languorous as he shook his head. The soft tint slowly dissipated from his angular features and his voice sharpened again. "Don't you have a report to make?"

"Slave driver," Omi stuck out his tongue cheerfully. He fairly bounced towards the door feeling a tremendous sense of accomplishment for so small a task. Or maybe not so small when you considered who he was dealing with. Either way, he felt ridiculously happy for some reason and for an evening that had started out a bust, it was nice to see it wasn't finishing that way.

"So, pizza?" He stopped at the door, tossing the words over his shoulder.

Aya waved him off, already turning back to his silent contemplation. Pulling the knob, he shut the door behind him, lingering with the cool round of metal clenched between his hand.

"Some time." For some reason that didn't seem so far off as it might have and he rolled his shoulders back, whistling as he ambled down the hall towards the shower.

***End