(and you and me,
we're dogs
like the rest of 'em.)
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Someone knocked thrice and then twice more. The sound had a musty ring to it, suggestive of thick wood hollowed by time.
His signature knock.
Haru grumbled to herself, flicking the laptop closed on her way to the door. She still couldn't comprehend the necessity of knocking; she had given him the extra apartment key because her neighbors were getting suspicious of the strange man knocking at strange hours, but he refrained from using it. She reached for the brass doorknob without hesitation, then paused upon noticing the fact. She knew with reasonable certainty that it was him.
But it could be anyone, really.
Just last week, the mailman had turned out to be a messenger with a cartridge full of "fuck you"s, catered with cordiality. Ryohei had knocked the man out, of course, but the damage was done; it had been a bloody Tuesday morning. Fuuta answered the door out of habit. The boy had scarcely uttered a syllable when the man opened fire. The spy had worn a blue-eyed, blond-haired smile, a patented Kodak look. Haru remembered the second of stillness, a flash of white teeth, then noise.
Her hands quivered as she opened the door, wishing it wouldn't creak and cringing when it did.
His expression was guarded, but she could tell he was itching to break the ice. The hardness in his gaze told her he'd guessed at her thoughts.
She inched back by way of greeting, making room for him to enter. In swift strides he crossed the threshold, tossing his tie onto the linen couch, unfastening the top button of his collared shirt with nimble fingers. She smiled, committing the simple act to memory. Without saying a word, she settled herself in an armchair. When he followed suit, she arched her brows. The longer she observed him, the more fidgety he seemed to get.
He cleared his throat.
Unsure of how to begin, he stood abruptly, the stool tumbling over in his haste. He paused, righted the stool, exhaled slowly, and headed to the cupboards. He poured a glass of wine for himself, even making the ten-step trek across the kitchen to fetch a teacup, pouring from the stainless steel kettle with shaky hands.
And he never served her tea. It was always "get it yourself."
Her eyes widened, and she stared, stymied. "What's the occasion?" she finally broke the silence.
He turned, muffling a curse as a bit of steaming tea spilled onto the hardwood paneling. "Haru..."
She stiffened instantly. It should have loosened her up, but it made her tense. He made it a habit to avoid her first name, as if he'd break out in hives upon affording intimacy. It was always "Miura," the way a soldier might roughly address his compatriot, respectful yet gruff. "Miura" was the term with which he acknowledged her existence—at an arm's length.
He licked his lips, then met her gaze. "We caught Ciro, the damn bastard. He's been removed from the ranks."
Her russet irises gleamed in recognition. "Oh, the informant?"
"The guy went nuts when we cornered him... completely lost it." He raked a hand through his hair. "He was screaming for someone, I don't know. It could have been his wife. Or a mistress—married men always cave in first. He put up a convincing front, fed us a few red herrings, but we eventually gathered the evidence to cut him loose."
Bluntly, she intoned, "And here I was, thinking you'd whacked him."
Grimacing, Gokudera shook his head. "No need. Boss would've opposed it, anyway."
Her lips quirked upward in the semblance of a smile. "That's all?"
He dropped his gaze, deathly quiet. "Haru."
"I was offered a job," she blurted. Anything to quell the goose bumps on her arms, to stave off the sense of foreboding crawling up her spine like the shafts of moonlight on her carpet. The word didn't belong to his lips—he'd made a point of circumventing it, so why the sudden ambush? People said "Haru" to get her attention, to continue onto the subject of the conversation. No one said her name like he did, like it was a sentence all of its own.
"That's... great," he replied slowly, thrown by her interruption. "Where... where is it?" He subconsciously clenched the underside of the stool, knuckles taut and pronounced. He was the embodiment of certainty—a man given to calculation and excessive endurance. She couldn't stomach the glimmer of uncertainty in his eyes, the glimmer that she put there. It was her turn to break eye-contact.
"Japan."
He wiped his sweaty palms on his slacks. "What kind of job?"
"Field biologist."
He was floored. "Are you shitting me?" he wanted to ask, but opted for: "...You're a computer engineer."
"I hate computer engineering," she bit out, straining the muscles in her neck. "And in case you've forgotten, I'm a biology major. It won't be too difficult to backtrack." She flinched at the last part, a weak rationalization better left unadmitted. The boss would have let it pass, maybe even pitied her. Gokudera would not be so lenient.
Scrutinizing the woman, he scrambled to regain his footing. "But you—at the base, you've been—"
She shook her head firmly. "It was best option at the time. I did what I had to."
"It was your decision," he retorted brusquely, oscillating between bitterness and shock as he struggled in vain to dispel the nausea turning in his stomach. Shamal had warned him of this day—the day "it" slipped through his fingers, whatever the hell "it" was. No fucking way. Damn coot doesn't know what he's talking about. "Quit the victimized act, I don't buy it."
She regarded him with a stricken expression, as if he'd asked her if she believed in the Tooth Fairy. "You can't be serious. You know as well as I do that I gave it my all, studying under Giannini 'till I dreamt in code—but it wasn't for myself." After a moment, she scoffed, and added bitingly, "Of course, you never thought of that, did you? You just assumed I was so desperate to help that I'd do anything out of an unconditional love I can apparently pull out of my ass."
He laughed, a caustic fire burning in his lungs, begging for oxygen. "So you think you can just start over, pretend you're brand new? You've been underground for ten years. You'd need some serious Witness Protection to be reinstated." Downing the wine in one gulp, he smirked. "Funny, I'd never pegged you for a quitter, Miura."
There it was—"Miura." A throwback to normality, the chains that bore her down.
Give it to him straight, Kyoko had advised. He'll try to tear you to pieces if it goes well. If not, he'll tear himself up. The brunette sighed, mildly relieved by his predictable brashness. "I'm not defecting," she ground out. "I've worked out the details with the Boss. I'll be responsible for any slip-ups, but I have no intention of ratting the Vongola out. He won't sic the Varia on me, but whatever happens from here on out rests on my shoulders."
As quick as it sparked, his fire went out. "So you're leaving for good."
He remembered Shamal clapping him on the back, a patronizing token of affection reserved for the clueless and the damned. Not a good omen.
He stole a glance at the brunette. She sharply withdrew her gaze and bit down hard on her lip, blinking furiously to remain composed. "I just—I can't keep up with the senselessness of it all. Like the Coletti deal Kyoya struck last week—what the hell was that? They wanted a share of our profits, and Kyoya forked it over for a bootlegged shipment of his favorite revolvers, straight from Germany. Again. Sure, we're fighting for our lives, but none of it makes a shred of sense."
"Hibari's an asset we can't afford to lose," Gokudera explained impatiently. "He does whatever the fuck he wants, and you'd be a numbskull to deny him. But he's a sworn member of the Famiglia. Sure he's got a few loose screws, but at the end of the day he knows who to point the gun at."
"So that's it? You strong-arm your way through life until someone stronger comes along?"
"It's the same philosophy, Miura, no matter where you go. If you want something, you'll have to fight for it." The double-entendre struck him squarely in the face as he ran both hands down his face, muttering, fuck. What a grave I've dug for myself. He could imagine Shamal cackling in the back of his mind, effervescing: I told you so.
"And what do you want?"
His hands fell away as he stared at her, disbelieving the words she'd hurled at him so casually.
"What?"
"You heard me."
He stood, jammed both hands into his pockets, and toed the Persian rug she'd snagged at a flea market. "I can't have it both ways, is that what you're trying to say?"
Her irises were liquid gold in the lamp light. "Come here."
Gokudera turned suddenly, contempt written across his face. "The hell are you—"
"Get over here."
Neither of them stirred, and the ensuing silence was not a chasm but a sudden intimacy prolonged by a lack of excuses.
Begrudgingly, he seated himself on the edge of the coffee table, knees slanted away from hers. He shifted his gaze to his peripheral vision, all too aware of her proximity.
The clock on the grey-blue wall read eleven forty-seven PM. The table was stone cold and his wine glass was empty. He distracted himself by counting the patterned squares on the tatty wallpaper.
Very deliberately, she said, "You'd leave too, if you understood. We're only running in circles here."
His head whipped around at her implication. "You're kidding me—"
Haru waved a dismissive hand at his misunderstanding. "Not physically. Mentally. You'd lose it. We're so caught up in keeping afloat, we haven't a clue as to where the current's headed. The boss has his hands full with keeping conflict at bay—every morning I wonder if the next straw will break his back. Nothing will change if we let it lie."
"As opposed to what?" he muttered waspishly. "You can try to negotiate with the wiseguys, but you'd just end up with a bullet through your skull."
"Leverage," she murmured. "They're generous with bullets because they need scare tactics. So here's what you do, you monopolize an industry, squeeze them out. Force them to play by the rules of their own game. Then we'll see who changes. But it's a pity, because by that time..." Haru chuckled sadly. "By that time, we will have changed the most. Become a monster to slay the monster. Isn't that right?"
"Then why," he growled, "did you drag yourself down here in the first place?"
"That is the question," she laughed, ducking her head in a manner of such bashfulness one would have thought he'd asked about her first love. "I thought my father had it all wrong. Prestige and a stable income are not enough to secure happiness. But the Mafia have it all wrong, too. You can't buy happiness with dishonest money."
He snorted skeptically, watching the window curtains for any unwelcome shadows. "And you think leaving it behind will secure happiness?"
"I know that staying around never will."
A wounded look flickered through his eyes before he doused it in rage. "You're fucking mad, Miura, you know that?"
She had never mastered the art of grace, much less subtlety. With a flaring temper, she snapped, "What do you think I've been doing for the past few weeks? Why do you think the Boss is letting me go in the middle of an investigation? Look around. What do you see?"
Confused, he made quick inventory of her apartment, noting the pointed lack of adornment on the walls and tables. Even her mother's impressively useless china set had vanished. He recalled that the cabinet had been sparse save for a few cups. "Not much."
"Exactly. I've sold it all—even the forged painting. Didn't sum up to much, but throw in the five carat red diamond they discovered in Ciro's possession—no doubt stolen—and I had a fair amount to work with. Doesn't hurt to have an ally in the police force, either." She was referring to Hana, a local cop who pulled strings for the Vongola from time to time. They never asked for anything illicit; they would simply drop a hint and Hana would follow up on the lead, threatening the corrupt party involved to cooperate or face jail time set at a high bail.
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"This." She procured three tapes, mouth setting into a grim line. "Wired conversations of plans made between the two major Famiglias breathing down our necks. It's hard to tell who's bluffing over bottles of scotch, but this'll confirm it. Sucked for us, but it pays to have other informants out there." Hana had pressured made men to turn their backs on their famiglias out of self-preservation. A bribe had done the rest. If Haru had any qualms about resorting to wiretapping, she made no show of it. Men of their sort made deals over casual conversation at lounges, sipping alcohol. She couldn't be within earshot at every meeting; that would be downright shady. Wiretapping was the only feasible means of gathering evidence. With legal consent, she would face no recrimination.
Or so Hana said. Haru had little doubt the Mafiosi would pay no mind to "legal consent" and close in for the kill if they ever caught wind of it.
She slid the tapes across the table, pasting on a small smile. "Think of it as a parting gift."
He flinched.
The clock counted twenty-three seconds before he exhaled loudly, grunting in frustration. "What about Lambo and I-pin?" he demanded savagely, nursing a bruised pride.
He knew he was grasping at whatever he could like a man dying of thirst in the desert, eying the last drop of water in the canister with something like crazed agony.
"They're old enough to decide what they want to do with their lives."
"And if they end up with bounties on their heads?"
"I trust them to take care of themselves."
"Just like you trusted your father?" he sneered. It was a low blow, but well-placed. Her father had evacuated their home at Reborn's entreaty. Haru later learned that the Millefiore had tracked him down anyway, ridding him as one would swat a fly—without a second thought. Collateral damage, nothing more, nothing less.
And for what? Her father was a tenured lecturer on Gaussian functions and applied statistics. What could a conman want with a mathematics professor? But they'd gutted him regardless. It's how they get to you—by getting the ones around you. Corner you with paranoia 'till there's no one left. Nobody wanted it done to them, so they'd do it to someone else. That was the way they lived. That was the way they fled the alternative to living.
If they went after Lambo and I-pin—gunned them down like they did to Fuuta—
She swiped at her eyes with jerky movements, shuddering and gritting her teeth to flatten her hiccupping breaths. "Damn you," she rasped. "Damn you, damn you—"
He grabbed her wrists, pulling her in, jade eyes bright with anger. "Your chances of survival out there are close to none. If you want to stay alive, you'll need to hire bodyguards, which will only make you more conspicuous. Use that infuriating brain of yours and think this through, Miura."
"I have thought it through," she seethed through blurred vision and salty lips. "Death is a price I'm willing to pay. Money's made a fool of all these Mafiosi, anyhow." Paranoia lurked in every shadow, around every corner. She was no longer sure if death was what she feared or what she sought, an end to fatigue, an end to fear itself.
"I'm only going to say this once," he snarled, pulling her even closer, knocking her forehead against his.
She struggled against him, but he held her in place, and, bound by the raw feeling in his tone, she gradually stilled. The clock struck twelve, and somewhere a catchy little tune wafted through the midnight air—a cuckoo clock perhaps. Haru smothered the bubbling urge to laugh. She lived amongst the locals in a typical apartment complex.
But she would never be one of them. And that was fine; there wasn't much in her childhood for her to miss. But neither was there much in her future to look forward to.
She had to leave.
"I'm begging you to stay."
She couldn't leave.
Haru squeezed her eyes shut and thought: how do you do this to me? Gingerly, he wiped her hot tears away with the pad of his thumb, a gesture that translated to: don't make me regret saying that. It was fucking humiliating. He hated her for setting his nerve endings on fire. She felt much the same.
"It's sick," she whispered harshly, eyes straining open. "...Our hands will never be clean."
"So-fucking-what," he countered, breathing heavily. "Whatever damage they deal, we'll overturn it. Don't run. They'll only hunt you down."
Twitching, she balked, "I wasn't planning an escape."
"The Boss sent me here. Said it was urgent. Probably wanted me to stop you."
She grunted. "Don't lie to me."
"You think I'd fucking lie to make you feel better?"
"You... you're so..." she found no adjective and laughed. "No, you wouldn't." She hesitated. "Thank you."
The man sent her a long-suffering look, drawing away to hang up his jacket. The closet was a pitiful indication of the infrequent houseguests she entertained. Two wire hangers occupied the closet, both dusty. She bought everything in pairs. Two cups, two plates, two chairs—as if she still had her father to think of.
"You're staying?"
"That depends. Got any coffee?"
"Sure."
After an expectant pause, she smirked.
"Get it yourself."
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A/N: "whacked" is slang for "killed," which is what happens when a Mafioso doesn't want you around anymore.
Thank you for reading. Feedback would be greatly appreciated.