Summary: Xanxus expected the world to wait for him. Or maybe it was more accurate to say that Xanxus had never expected to not have the world moving at his pace. Until it didn't. [one-shot] [character study, slightly]
Disclaimer: I don't own KHR! or the cover picture.
When he stormed down that fort, Wrath raging all 'round him, Xanxus didn't quite know what he expected, exactly.
Other than blasting that shitty old man and those fucking Vongola cronies to ashes and claiming his right of Decimo, which, obviously, didn't happen.
(He was sixteen. Young enough to act on wildly hotheaded impulses, old enough to take grievous offense at being called out on it.)
Being in cryo, however bastardized a version, was... not much of anything.
He wasn't really conscious of the passage of time, nor of anything besides a constant blood-deep chill- the blood that a-fucking-pparently wasn't good enough for their damn standards of 'primo primo primo' like secundo was some piece of trash which he was not because he was not -that was only occasionally relieved by an intangible warmth floating near.
It took a while for Xanxus' cold-fogged mind to process that the warmth was probably the Flame presence of his fa- the fucking liar who started this all.
To his anger, though he understood that he still really wanted to set Timoteo's graying mustache on fire, his unresponsive body wholly savored the brief respite from the frigidity of his prison, and despite himself, Xanxus grew to crave those moments of warmth.
Didn't mean he listened to what that old coot said, but still.
The visits, which seemed to fall farther and farther apart, were also his only way of measuring time. Time, a nebulous concept at best in the blinding, deafening, numbing ice.
A month may have passed, or maybe a decade, by the time he was melted out.
The first thing Xanxus saw out of cryo, slowly but irritably blinking frost from his eyes, was the mad-eyed grin of Superbi Squalo, and the tense silence of the other Varia Guardians ringing them.
(Not the most pleasant thing to wake up to... but good enough for him.)
"Scum," he assuredly growled instead of gasped, because gasping was a sign of weakness and Xanxus did not do weak.
Even after an undetermined period of time spent unwillingly trapped.
(Though he did, admittedly, allow himself a moment to mentally question the sudden deepening of his formerly teenaged voice; there were no handy mirrors around for him to check his appearance, however, so he dismissed it.)
"Boss!" was the unanimous cry of relief, with varying addends, depending on who was saying it. Such modifications including, "shitty," "-chan," "sama," and "shishishishishi!"
Xanxus stepped forward, heavily.
In that instance of movement, he knew he held his subordinates' loyalty still, and anything he said now, they'd follow.
He was perfectly still, glaring out with red eyes, smoldering as he summoned the strength of his no-longer-suppressed Flames into wispy visibility.
Then he saw the floor falling towards him, and realized a beat later that he was the one falling.
It went black before he felt if he'd hit the ground or not.
.
.
.
His Guardians' loyalty was one of the few things that seemed to be the same. Even then, things between them were slightly unfamiliar, slightly tenser, slightly more restless.
Eight years, they said. Eight years you've been on ice, Boss.
The Varia itself was more disreputable and rebellious. They'd severely strained their ties to the Vongola after what, he learned, was now dubbed the 'Cradle Affair.' A few had left for freelance work, or to test their luck with different affiliations, though the officers had done their best to keep the remaining ranks well-trained and loyal.
But were they loyal to him?
They feared him. That was fine for now, with Xanxus' cursedly weakened body- which was, like everything else, different.
Not different like how the Headquarters furniture, room positioning, staff, security measures, and other such things were different.
Different as in older, instead of- in what seemed to be the trend for the 'different everything else' -newer.
He was a 16-year-old with an uncertain amount of cryo-memories walking around in a 24-year-old's body.
Movement, strength, voice, hormones, etc.; they were all off.
Xanxus hated it, but he got used to it, since there wasn't much else he could do about his own body.
For the 'newer'...
Internet had bloomed. Technology had innovated. History went on.
Xanxus had expected the world to wait for him.
Or maybe it was more accurate to say that Xanxus had never expected to not have the world moving at his pace.
Until it didn't.
1996, he charged into Vongola's heart.
2004, he came out.
In between, a lot of events happened, a lot of events he only found out about after going searching when recovering on Guardian-enforced bedrest.
The first successful landing of a spacecraft on Mars; a princess killed; and a sheep cloned: 1997
World population reaches six billion; the Y2K scare; and tobacco companies admit smoking's harmful: 1999
Human genome is deciphered; 'dot-com bubble' bursts: 2000
9/11, a terrorist attack overseas in America that rocked the world, but mostly rocked the bombed Afghanistan; Kyoto Protocol is signed: 2001
al-Qaeda claims responsibility for Spain's terrorist attacks; Nato accepts seven new countries from the former Soviet block; an enormous tsunami drowns Asia: 2004
Somewhere, somehow, sometime, computers became cool, the Web became important, terrorism started spreading, mobile phones were revolutionized, and Apple stopped being a laughingstock who bled money. DVD, in 1997, was expected, but color monitors? LCD monitors? 'Wi-Fi?' 'Bluetooth?' The hell did Google come from?
He still didn't know or particularly care what celeron processors were, but they were apparently also important.
What the fuck did they expect him to do with eight lost years?
'They' being his Guardians, Xanxus rationally knew that they were waiting to see how he acted- to see if he was still the person worthy of being followed.
Well, fuck that.
He- he'd lost his chance at Decimo. Not to say he was giving up, but there wasn't an opportunity for him to seize power right now.
The shark trash and the umbrella trash were scouting to find out who was the candidate after Xanxus, the knife trash was busy gleefully putting the fear of boys in tiaras into the Varia trash currently in base, and the flashy trash was occupied with keeping him healing.
Healing? Fuck that doubly.
Xanxus could move now without toppling over- an ability he demonstrated by rising from his bed and ripping out the unknown drip hooked up to him -, and most pain was nothing to his resistance, especially with the sense of chilly numbness that hadn't quite disappeared yet- another ability he next demonstrated by ignoring the agony flaring up with every flex of neglected muscle.
"Boss-chan?" the flashy trash trilled, immediately fluttering to the doorway and keeping a respectfully wary distance.
(Lussuria was used to dealing with difficult patients, and he wasn't much of a healer-inclination anyway, but the newly awakened Varia Sky liked to vent rage at his recovery rate by throwing breakable objects; it was a habit that grew progressively more dangerous to provoke as Xanxus' aim adjusted.)
"I'm not wasting any more of my fucking time," he stated. "Get me my guns. The shooting range's still in the same shitty place, scum?"
The Sun Guardian assessed his superior's not-completely-healed body, and compared it to his superior's darkened-with-weighty-purpose face.
He nodded frantically, and gingerly presented Xanxus with the guns he'd kept close by, suspecting that the bedridden assassin was going to have asked for them sooner than later.
Xanxus deigned to give the flashy trash a short, brusque nod of acknowledgement-that-was-almost-gratitude-if-you-squinted-just-right, and strode off grimly on his way back to getting with the times.
The world hadn't waited, so Xanxus Vongola was just going to have to play catch-up.
.
.
.
-Please Review.-