Since you all asked so nicely I decided to post this sooner than planned. *grin* There is, of course, another chapter sitting complete on my 'puter, and one more than just needs some corrections, but this is all you get for now. Mwahahahahahhaha . . .

I had trouble with this part. I *was* making it Omi's POV, but after scrapping the whole thing twice, it's now Youji's POV. Somehow, I just can't get into Omitchi's kawaii little head. But…C&C anyway, onegaiiiiii??? *makes wobbly puppy eyes--Omi style!!*

Title: Steel runs in the blood [3/??]

Author: Dragonflyred7

Pairings: YoujixAya(Ran)-ness (Any objections? *glares at the rankens*) It's slight, but there. (Finally.)

Teaser: When the Abyssinian is badly injured during a mission it's up to the other Aya to keep the team together. (No, not as an assassin!!)

Rating and warnings: PG-13(?) For violence, angst, slight shounen ai (you can probably read it as close freindship if you want), and language.

Spoilers: Many, from all over the place (anime series, assassin and white shaman, etc), and not necessarily overly correct. List goes on indefinitely, but I improvise/change anything I don't know or doesn't fit the plot. (assuming I have one ^^;)

Status: In progress. But if you all hate it, I can drag it out back and shoot it in the head for you. It's a first fic. Be gentle. Also, I have a really bad track record for finishing things I start.

Archive: E-mail me first and tell me where.

Thanks to: some person called Yen, who wrote the fic, 'Aya's Scheme'. Something Youji says in that inspired the title of this one. It all grew from there. And a HUGE thanks to Amari, who beta-ed this section and pointed out the many instances when I used made-up words (I swear I thought they *were* words!) and used real words as other words. *winces* I can't see how people could take the time out from their busy lives to beta for fic writers, but I'm glad they do. *hugs*

Disclaimer: I'm using Weiss and it's characters without permission. This story is written for fun only and I'm not making any money off of it. All characters and most of everything else belong to Koyasu Takehito and Project Weiss, and not, unfortunately, to me. *kidnaps Aya, hides him under bed with the dust bunnies*

I write emphasis like *this* and thoughts (including memories) like / /this / /.

########

steel runs in the blood

by dragonflyred7

scene 2: skinned knees

Daytime. The warm summer air already starting to cool a little. He hadn't even noticed the hours slipping away, just as, much earlier, he hadn't much noticed when the darkness slid away. How long had he really been out here, the wrought iron railing of the hospital balcony beneath his elbows, tobacco smoke curling away to fade into nothingness. How many cigarettes had he smoked by now, he wondered. Or, more accurately, how many had he let burn down to their filter, forgotten between strong fingers? He couldn't really remember. Idly, he shook the rumpled cardboard pack. At least there were still a few in there.

He took a deep drag from the one currently in his hand and leaned back, hanging to the railing with one hand and tilting his face up to the sky. It was a small balcony, and probably rarely used for anything, if at all. One of those pointless, unnecessary structures that always seemed like a good idea in the architect's mind and looked nice on paper, but really did nothing more than add a couple of generous sums to the building cost. Or maybe it had been intended for the use Youji was now putting it to. Escape.

Escape without looking like he was trying to escape anything. Of course, Omi, groggy as he still was, and maybe even Ken, would be well onto him by now. His cigarette breaks had never lasted whole half-days before. And they certainly hadn't entailed this much staring into space and burning fingers on forgotten ciggs. Well, not since Asuka's…. no. Not since *Neu's* death. Trying to look casual, he tilted his head back a bit more, giving himself an upside-down view of the room through glass sliding doors.

Ken was in there, talking to Omi, presumably explaining everything that had occurred after the mission, but looking suspiciously like he was talking about something more entertaining and far more cheerful. Youji straightened and half-turned, frowning a little. Leave it to Ken to forget what he was meant to be doing, he thought, slightly annoyed at the brunette.

Still, yelling at Ken about it would mean going back inside and that wasn't really something Youji wanted to do just yet. For one thing, there was that rule about smoking *inside*, and he'd already been caught once or twice--okay, three or four times--lighting up at Omi's bedside earlier today. And, while he'd had his fill of nicotine and tar *hours* ago, he found the sterile whiteness of the hospital room distasteful, the strong, cloying smells of medicine and antiseptic floorwash nearly overpowering. Even out here he could smell the chemical fragrance, a very slight background scent, drifting out from the half-open door. It was enough to keep him at bay a while longer.

And then of course, there was that *other* problem, Youji thought, taking another long drag. That problem of Aya not having regained consciousness yet. It had been uncomfortable enough sitting there all morning with *both* of them lifeless, but Ken had refused to move an inch from his seat, insisted on standing vigil over his teammates for however long it might take for them to wake. The brunette had been shaken by the close call, visibly and obviously so, and despite his own discomfort, Youji had been loath to desert him.

But as soon as Omi had awakened, Youji found he couldn't really bear to stay inside any longer. He'd tried though, and found his mind wandering avenues that, quite frankly, he'd rather it would stay off of. Questions kept popping into his mind, such as *who's fault is this, really?* and *what the hell happened to Aya?* And, then there was that other, more insistently nagging thought that, no matter how hard he tried to dislodge it, remained in the back of his mind, leaping to the fore whenever he'd let his eyes stray away from Omi and Ken and to the other bed.

/ /Why is Aya taking so long to wake up?/ /

After all, Omi had been up for hours now, had even regained a little color in his cheeks and enough of a presence of mind to worry for Ken and Youji's welfare. A worry that probably wasn't helped by the older blonde's loitering out on the verandah, by his chain smoking. Well, Youji thought, he was probably just as worried for Omi as Omi was for him.

And how could he stand to be in there, anyway, when Aya was still lying like one dead? Pale and bruised and a little gray around the edges, with that godawful blue tinge to his lips that really did make him look like a corpse? When there was *still* no guarantee he'd be okay? When it might very easily be *Youji's* fault that this had happened to him?

Because while Aya *had* messed up, had put them, and Omi, and himself in danger, and *had* almost completely bungled the mission, he and Ken weren't exactly blameless, either. *They* hadn't been paying all too much attention when they'd been rigging the bombs, *they* had been comfortable and confident in the routine of it all. Comfortable and confident enough to joke and banter and smoke. Comfortable and confidant enough that the first detonation had come four seconds early. Four *whole* goddamned seconds early. And in their line of work, four seconds was a hell of a long time. Maybe if those few, precious seconds hadn't been lost, Aya would be awake now. Maybe Omi wouldn't be so black and blue. Maybe a lot more of the shit that flew through the air in the wake of those explosions would have missed them. Youji was sure that they'd both taken quite a clobbering from airborne concrete and rubble and *stuff*.

And sure, he could place equal blame for that on Ken, just as Ken was placing almost full responsibility for the whole catastrophe on Aya's battered shoulders. But he *couldn't* blame Ken for this. *He* should have been paying more attention to what they were doing because the truth was… Well, the truth was that, delinquent though he was--or liked to think of himself as--he was *still* the eldest. And they were *all* still his responsibility. Even Aya who had pretty much snatched the role of leadership out from under his nose almost as soon as he'd waltzed into the Koneko no Sumu Ie, what was it? Two years ago? Three? More? Less? It felt like ages, and yet, like yesterday.

Youji didn't mind. He had kind of liked being the voice of authority, had kind of liked being the one they turned to when decisions needed making, but had also been painfully aware the entire time, that this was not a part he played particularly well. He didn't have Aya's quiet confidence, his sharp, deadly instinct. Leadership was a burden he was, in the end, glad to be relieved of. One that, eventually, he'd been sick of carrying.

But it was a burden he'd quickly and efficiently re-claimed as soon as that last bomb had gone off. As soon as they were sure that that was it, and there were no more explosions coming. He'd surprised himself at that, at the sudden calm that flowed through him at knowing what had to be done. Had he followed the rules, Aya and Omi would be dead by now, he knew. Had he followed the rules, he'd have left with Ken when they hadn't shown by the first explosion. You just *didn't* go and muck around a site looking for teammates who were most likely dead anyway. Not when cops and all manner of security would be swarming the place at any minute.

But, in Youji's personal book of do's and don'ts, abandoning people you cared about was unthinkable. And it wasn't like Ken would have willingly left without doing at least a cursory search first.

So they'd left he car running, ready for an escape, not really thinking that someone might stumble onto it and maybe filch it--after all it wasn't every day you found a Porsche hanging about with doors open, engine running and keys in the ignition--and gone to look for whatever might be left of their teammates.

Youji hadn't expected to find anything--not even bodies--definitely hadn't expected to find them *both* alive. *Alive* alive, too, not alive and fading fast, or alive with no hope of recovery. He hadn't expected to find them in one piece. He had to admit, though, he hadn't been particularly *surprised* either, when he and Ken had found them, bleeding, battered, and very much the worse for wear. Realized that some small, optimistic part of him that probably spent *way* too much time around Omi had fully believed they'd be okay. It was just another bit of Aya's magic. The same magic he'd used to rescue the three of them from certain death, from being shot down by that dammed chopper, back before Takatori's death.

But God, even *with* Aya's magic, what a *mess*! Omi had still been conscious, sort of, enough to recognize them at any rate. Enough to mouth something that *looked* like it might have been "are you okay?" Which--If that was indeed what he'd said--was a pretty selfless question for someone who'd just nearly been blown to bits the size of your average cornflake. It was also so typically Omi, that it had shattered Youji's brief, fragile bubble of calm.

Pushing down the urge to panic, he'd managed to get Omi wrapped in one of the two blankets they'd somehow managed to remember to bring with them from the car and Aya in the other. Managed to get them to the car and into the back seat without further injury. They both looked horrible. Omi bleeding from at least two gunshot wounds and several gashes, bare arms and legs raked with scratches and colored by bruises. Aya looked to be in worse condition, even with his trench covering most of the damage. The leather of that garment was ripped, torn, punctured, evidence of the damage done to the flesh beneath. Oh well, he'd thought, at least the blankets would keep the blood off the seats.

Youji took another deep drag, draped both long arms over the railing and, leaning forward heavily, tried to banish that image. Tried to forget that he'd been, even for a second, worried about the interior of Aya's *car*, when Aya himself was bleeding like a sieve. And then there'd been the mad drive to the hospital which had done much in the way of reminding Youji why they didn't let Ken drive, and why they didn't, if it was at all avoidable, ride pillion on his motorbike.

It had been hard to call Aya-chan, harder to come to the decision to do it. It had taken a long, loud argument with Ken for them to settle the matter. They both knew it had been the right thing to do, especially then, with Aya and Omi both in surgery, having bullets, shrapnel and what not removed from their flesh. It had been the right thing to do for those few precarious hours when Aya's life had been in the balance, when it had seemed he would *not* make it. It had been right because she, at least, should have had the privilege of saying goodbye.

And now that it looked like Aya was going to be okay… Well, *now* it was only a betrayal. Not that it hadn't been before, but… at least then he'd had a reason. At least *then* it had been, at least to himself, justifiable. At least *then* he had been able to tell himself that Aya would be none the wiser.

Cigarette dangling from between his teeth, Youji frowned. He'd wanted to tell Aya-chan exactly which hospital they were at, wanted to tell her he would come pick her up, so she could be at her brother's side instead of back at the flower shop, having to smile at customers or hide in the store room or upstairs, the whole while not knowing what was really going on, what had really happened. If Aya would even be all right. But that just hadn't been possible, not until he was *sure* that it was all over. He'd wanted to let her come over straight away as soon as Aya had been wheeled into the room, pale and tired looking and neatly bandaged. But between then and now, he still hadn't made a move to make that second phone call.

And he wouldn't. Not until Aya woke up. He'd been entertaining a morbid vision of the siblings in reversed roles. He didn't want to see that vision made reality. Didn't want to see in Aya-chan's eyes the look that had for so long filled her brother's. Despair. Grief. Barely sustained hope. Day after day, month after month. And true, they'd been given reassurance that Aya would wake just as soon as his body could handle it, as soon as exhaustion and whatever drugs they'd put him under wore off. He didn't want to jinx it, though. Didn't want to let Aya-chan come over just yet for some vague, irrational fear that it might make his vision true.

Shaking his head at himself and his childish thoughts, Youji leaned over the railing to spit the butt of the cigarette out, and watched it fall four or five stories to the walk below. Of course, he'd have to talk to Aya before he made that phone call. He'd have to tell him what they'd told Aya-chan, even if it meant certain death so soon as the redhead got his hands wrapped around his katana hilt. Otherwise who knew what he'd do when she arrived? It was already becoming painfully obvious that Aya's hold on reality, on himself, on his demons, whatever, was far more tentative than Youji had ever guessed.

And that was a weird thought. That the Aya whom they turned to to get them the hell out of skin-of-the-teeth situations--the Aya whom they would all follow into hell--*had*, in fact, followed into hell--trusting him to get them out in more or less one piece--that this same Aya could be so fragile… It was a disturbing thought. It made Youji fear that maybe there would be more missions like this in the future. And he really didn't want to be scraping his teammates off the pavement any more than was absolutely necessary.

Youji turned around again, peered through the door. Reaching for yet another cigarette before reminding himself that he didn't really need or even want it all that much. It was just something for restless hands to do, something with which to keep busy so his thoughts wouldn't keep wandering back to last night, trying to figure out what they might have done differently to avoid this disaster.

He sighed softly. Ken was still talking with Omi; leaning forward now with his chin nestled in folded arms, resting on the edge of Omi's bed. What had been animated talking and laughing had become quiet and serious discussion, Ken's chocolate eyes dark and still a little angry. Omi's head was turned away from Youji and cocked to one side as the kid listened intently to what Ken was saying. In the foreground, closer to the sliding doors, Aya still lay unmoving. Youji sighed again, a worried sound. Okay. He wanted that cigarette after all.

It took a moment to locate his lighter, a moment longer to wrestle it out of the pocket of his tight jeans. After that, Youji was all grace again, flicking the thing on, holding the blue tongue of flame to the end of his cigarette, leaning against the rail, his green eyes going to watch the nurses who wandered about below. No joy in that today. He was just too tired and too worried and they were just too damned far away to see properly. Still, he did it out of habit, blowing a kiss at the one or two pretty-seeming ones who happened to glance up.

Eyelids slid down over green eyes as he yawned, everything finally catching up with him. He wanted to go home and to bed, but that would mean, one, leaving Omi and Aya, and most likely Ken, who still looked determined not to budge, and, two, running into Aya-chan, who would surely ask questions. He was starting to fall asleep just standing there, listening to the hum of traffic and being 'non-chalant'.

He was doing a good job at that 'non-chalant' bit. 'non-chalance' had been his armor for a long, long time. Indifference and shallow self-indulgence his mask, just as cold indifference was Aya's. As innocent cheer was Omi's. Youji just half-lidded his eyes and gazed at the world over his shades with his long-perfected devil-may-care attitude that told the world it was by no means of any importance to Youji.

"You WHAT Ken-kun?"

Youji almost swallowed his cigarette. He raised an elegant eyebrow at the door in an indignant, questioning expression. They weren't paying attention to him. Not enough to see the look he threw them, anyway. Ken was too busy chattering at Omi, his hands spread in a placating gesture. / /God, Ken, have a little spine./ / He stepped away from the railing to listen in.

Good old Ken. Good old *loyal* Kenken. Muttering something about something having been Youji's idea as much as his, and Youji being responsible, too, and it not being Ken's fault. And besides, *Youji* had made the phone call, so don't shoot the messenger.

Oh. So *that's* what it was about. Well, he hadn't expected Omi to like what they had done.

Youji gave up on his half-wanted, half-smoked cigarette and tossed it over the edge of the verandah to follow the other. A fleeting thought, / /Hope it doesn't hit anyone/ / and he leaned over the edge to watch it fall and make sure it didn't. When it had safely hit the ground, he turned and went inside.

Ken was still sitting on the chair by Omi's bed, talking softly and animatedly, trying to appease an angry and plastered looking Omi. Actually, the look on Omi's face reminded Youji of the few times he had actually managed to coerce the youngest Weiss into those drinking games that he really *did* have to know in order to be *cool*, really Omitchi.

/ /Yeah, Youji-kun, falling over your own feet is *really* cool./ /

/ /I don't fall over my feet./ /

/ /And there's *nothing* as cool as puking all over the carpet./ /

/ /I don't…okay, maybe once. But I'm *still* cool./ /

/ /Sure, Youji-kun./ /

/ /Just have a drink and shut up, Omitchi./ /

Omi was looking like the morning after one of Youji's clubbing nights--a little green and woozy, blue eyes just a touch too bright--but without the fun-filled evening to make up for it. Youji grinned at him, a little apologetically. After all, he'd spent most of the time since Omi'd woken outside.

"Looking good, Omi." Youji said, leaning for a second in the doorway, letting a smirk slowly take over his face, "Just like a mummy movie reject." He joked. Omi looked at him, *not amused* written clearly in his eyes. Whoah. Omi was really mad about this Aya-chan thing.

"He does, too." Ken laughed softly, as if just now realizing it. Omi turned away from Youji, probably to turn that disapproving glare on Ken.

"Gee, thanks Ken-kun."

There was no chair save the one currently under Ken's butt, and *he* didn't look like he was going to be inclined to offer Youji his seat any time soon. Youji looked around for another place to sit, and finding none, turned and unlatched the railing to Aya's bed, lowering it and seating himself on the edge of the matress, careful not to jar Aya or the IV line running into his arm. Omi glared as he got comfortable, hooking his heels into the lowered railing and leaning back on straightened arms. It looked…really cute and almost hilarious with Omi's badly singed hair sticking up in all sorts of funny angles, but Youji wasn't dumb enough to give in to the chortle that threatened to escape his throat.

He turned his gaze away to hide the grin on his face and the laugh in his eyes. Turned to look at Aya, so Omi wouldn't see him silently snigger. Not that anything was really all *that* funny. It was just a combination of relief and exhaustion and the look on Omi's face. There was even less reason to laugh when his eyes focused on the redhead's face.

He looked fragile. Pale. Like a porcelain doll just waiting to be broken. Like he *would* break if jarred in the slightest. His eyes were sunken and shadowed, ringed by half-circles the color of deep bruising. Actually, it might have *been* bruising. No reason for him *not* to have a couple of black eyes on top on everything else, right? And Aya had always been pale, far paler than most people Youji had ever seen, but *now* he looked like he was whiter even than the impressively bleached sheets. He disappeared in them, dwarfed by the bulk of the hospital bed and drowned by the blankets. And yeah, Youji had seen him hurt before, and hurt pretty badly, but he hadn't ever seen him look so *small* before. So *vulnerable*.

"Omi…" Youji turned back to the younger, moving his eyes, but nothing else.

"You *told* her!" Omi accused, glaring in fair imitation of Aya. There was nothing to do in the face of that charge but look guilty. Even Ken looked away, and *he* had obviously been through this wringer already.

"Yeah." Youji agreed hesitantly, "Um…well…" he searched for words, for an excuse, finally decided to buy time with "Look, Omi, I can explain." Omi looked doubtful. Omi looked like Aya might look when he learned of this betrayal. He didn't say anything, though, just blinked expectantly.

"Look," Youji repeated, then "how were we gonna explain a three day vacation suddenly becoming a," pause for thought, "a really *long* vacation? Who knows how long it'll take you guys to get better? And we sure as hell wouldn't be able to bring you home half-better, because then we'd have to explain what happened *anyway*. *And* we'd have to explain why we didn't call her about it, or come home right away when you were hurt."

"Yeah, but Aya-kun…" Omi saw their point. At least enough of it to drop the glare and go back to looking worried.

"And don't tell me it won't be a relief to not have to sneak into your own apartment like you were planning to rob yourself at four AM. I, for one, am tired of having to go to bed without a shower because who knows what sudden spark of enlightenment that might trigger in that girl's clever little head."

Omi looked like he might be won over, but just as Youji was going to continue listing the benefits of Aya-chan *knowing*, a cloud of suspicion drifted across his face, bringing a pouty frown of thought with it. "How much *did* you tell her, Youji-kun? You.. you didn't tell her *everything* did you?"

"Huh? Oh. No. No, of course not! Only that you two were hurt on a, uh, business trip."

"Did she suspect?"

"Well, gee Omi, you've said yourself that she suspected."

"I said suspected *something*. She thinks Aya-kun's selling drugs or something illegal like *that*." 'That' meaning 'not killing people'. Youji understood, but decided to be difficult anyway.

"Oh. So she's okay with drug dealing? Well, in *that* case…"

"Youji-kun!" Omi snapped in irritation, then winced—sending a stab of guilt through Youji for riling him. Then, in a calmer, pained tone of voice, "That's not funny, Youji-kun." Well, hell, of course it wasn't. What *was* funny about their life, anyway? / /Maybe a lot, actually, if you're on the outside, looking in./ / Youji could see some sick bastard just laughing his ass off at them. Hell, maybe one day *he* would look back and laugh, provided he survived that long.

"I wasn't trying to *be* funny, Omi. It's just she's a clever girl and she's gonna figure it out sooner or later anyway."

"And so you just had to give her hints, huh?" Omi challenged, pouting even more. Man, the kid really didn't know how to look intimidating. Or maybe it was just the painkillers, making him look wobbly and sleepy.

"Omi, she'd be more pissed off if she found out just *how much* we've been lying to her." Youji raised his chin in defiance, "We did it for the peace of the household."

"Hey, I just *live* there." Ken grumbled in self-defense.

"But--" Omi protested, only to be interrupted.

"We *had* to tell her, Omi."

Ken nodded in agreement.

"No you didn't." Omi argued stubbornly.

"'Course we did."

"Would *Youji* have done it if he didn't *have* to?" Ken added. Youji glared at him for it. For the emphasis on his name.

"What's this '*Youji* did it' bit, *comrade*?" he asked sarcastically, "As I recall, *you* were all for calling her. *I* was the one who objected."

"Why did you *have* to tell her, Youji-kun?" Omi sounded curious now, still annoyed but not pissed off anymore. Youji sighed.

"Because we thought Aya might die."

Omi's eyes widened.

"He was in pretty bad shape. We thought Aya-chan should know so she would be ready to haul her pretty posterior over here if, well… You know." *If Aya died* "So she could…" * Say goodbye* Youji couldn't finish his sentences, though. He had a thing about good-byes. Especially unsaid ones. He had a few he had yet to say himself. No. He had *one* he had yet to say. He rubbed unconsciously at one long, slender arm. "It was pretty close there for a while, Omitchi."

"Oh. I-I didn't know." Omi replied, eyes still large and shocked. He looked apologetic as he added, "It should still have been Aya-kun's decision, though." Youji snorted.

"Does he look like he's in any condition to be making decisions, Omitchi?" He asked quietly. Omi bit his lip and refocused his blue eyes to solemnly regard Aya. "Yeah. That's what I thought." Youji commented, suddenly wanting another smoke.

~#~

It was dark. A familiar, comfortable darkness. He had been here before. He had been *safe* here. Even now, he felt a lingering sense of security as he searched through the gloom with wide eyes, staring at the half-shrouded forms of mundane objects.

Slowly, slowly, things came into focus, began to make some sense as his eyes adjusted to the half-dark. Everything was bigger than he remembered. The windows looming large and almost out of his reach, the bed he sat in large enough for two or three of him to sleep in comfortably. He gripped the blankets in tight-fists, ducking his head to avoid seeing the room, and stared at his hands.

Curiously, releasing the blankets, he turned them palm-upwards, staring at them. Slowly fisted and opened them, before frowning in thought. His hands were…tiny. Tiny and soft and a little chubby. In fact, he realized looking down at himself, *all* of him was tiny, and oddly misproportioned.

He was calling for someone, feeling small and inexplicably scared. He was calling for…his parents? For a second or two it remained ridiculous, and then he was screaming his lungs out, no longer a spectator in his own body. What was it, why was he so… afraid?

Flashes of nightmare came back, freeze-frames of moments, faces, echoes of voices, of sounds. Half-shadowed glimpses of images whose origins he could not place. He called again, louder. Someone was supposed to come now, right? Wasn't someone supposed to come in and turn on the light and get him a glass of water, or tell him it was just a dream, and everything would be okay? So where were they? His mother? His father? He called again, his face scrunching up with the effort, chubby fists clutching at the edge of the thick quilt.

No one. Why didn't anyone come?

"'Kasan!!! 'Kasan!!!!!"

Why didn't anyone come?

He stopped yelling, tilted his head to one side, listening for the familiar sound of footsteps in the hallway. Listening for the sound of his doorknob being turned from outside. For that familiar voice to call, "Ran? What's wrong?" But it never came. No footsteps, no voice. Only silence.

"Okasan!!!" Where was she? Why didn't she come?

Another image, brief and vivid as the flash of a camera. No. He couldn't believe that image. It was impossible!!! It was…stupid. Impossible and stupid, and *he* was stupid to believe it, even for that second.

Chewing anxiously on his lower lip, he slid out of bed, almost landing on his rear when he stumbled at the unexpected drop. For a moment he stood bereft of purpose, wanting to go and find out why his calls went unheeded, but afraid to leave his room. Afraid, in fact, to go even a single step further from the security of the bed, of the blankets. He was torn between exploration and hiding. A long, indecisive look at the door, at the bed, and then he pulled the blankets down and around himself for shelter, for protection.

The doorknob was high. Not so high that he had to go to tip-toes to reach it, but high enough that he had to raise his hand above his head. Strange. He had a feeling that somehow he shouldn't have had to do that. That a lot *less* of the blankets should be pooling around his feet. That somehow his feet should have been a *lot* further away. Shrugging the feeling off, he pulled the blankets tighter about his throat and pushed the door open, sticking a tousled head out into the hall to make sure it was 'safe' before following with the rest of his body.

The hallway was as dark as his room. Darker, lacking the benefit of large windows to let in moonlight. He didn't remember it ever being this dark. Always before there had been the night just outside each door, so they would be able to find their way back at night without tripping over something and waking everyone up. Always before there's been the bathroom light at the end of the hall, left on for him and Aya.

Something in his mind whispered that it hadn't been that way for a long, long time. That those lights had been habitually left off for years now, that the nightlights had become obsolete in the face of advancing years. It was a distant thought, though, and hazy. Uncertain. He dismissed it. After all, the nightlights were *there*, just off, and too high for him to reach unless he found something to climb.

Putting one small hand to the wall for guidance, he shivered. He hadn't realized until now how *cold* it was. Frowning at that, he wondered if maybe no one else was even in bed yet. Maybe they were all still downstairs, watching television or reading the paper. That would explain why no one had heard him. It would explain why the lights weren't on yet. No one was up here to turn them on. All he had to do was go find his family. He pulled his blanket closer—a shield against the fear of whatever might lurk in the darkness around him—and took a small, tentative step.

/ /All I have to do is find them./ /

~#~

Youji blinked behind his shades, frowning. He almost voiced the question that jumped into his mind, but, considering Omi's condition and Ken's state of emotional exhaustion, he decided against it. The brunette had been pretty quiet for the last hour or so, something that was out of character for Ken, even a very tired, injured Ken. And with Omi already worried about everyone but himself, despite his own injuries and obvious exhaustion, well, no reason to get false hopes up, right? Still… / /Did I just see Aya move?/ /

If he had, it hadn't been much. A slight flicker of an eyelid, maybe the corner of his lips twitching in a slight frown. Something like that, something very minute out of the corner of his eye. For once, Youji cursed his perpetually present sunnies. Maybe if the damned frames hadn't been obscuring his vision, he would have gotten a clearer glimpse. Maybe he'd have seen if Aya had really stirred. Maybe he wouldn't be staring like a moron at the redhead, trying to figure out if it had been a trick of the light or his own wistful thinking.

It took about two minutes of consideration for him to decide that no, Aya probably hadn't moved, and even if he had, it didn't necessarily mean anything. Especially if it *had* been the flicker of an eyelid. He thought he'd seen a movie about that somewhere. About how people made small, reflexive movements even when they were-- But, no. He refused to even *think* it. Aya had been badly hurt, but not *that* badly, right? He had even regained consciousness, briefly, when they'd been trying to get him and Omi safely into the emergency room. So that meant he *had* to be all there, right?

"Youji?"

"Eh?"

"Are you okay?" Ken was staring at him. Well, maybe not staring. More like *watching*, his brown eyes tired and intent. "You're staring off at nothing. What's wrong?" Ken sounded like he half expected something to be amiss with Youji, because in his experience, things just went from bad to worse to even worse. Ken sounded resigned.

"I'm not staring off at nothing. I'm fine." Youji waved the question away. "I'm perfectly fine."

Ken looked suspicious. "You'd better not be lying, Youji. It would be a pain in the butt to have to drag you back here if you keeled over half-way home." Youji grinned at that, at Ken's half-annoyed, half-concerned tone. At the way he was half-heartedly trying to sound normal.

"Kenken, I didn't know you cared." He purred, not thinking, doing it out of reflex.

"Don't get funny, Youji. And don't call me Kenken." Ken snapped back, sounding like he was either sleep-talking or running on auto.

"Kenken."

"Youji…" Warning in Ken's voice. Youji ignored it.

"Kenke--"

"Youji-kun! Ken-kun!" Omi interrupted, face creased in a disapproving scowl, his tone scolding. At any other time, Youji would have been all over him, teasing him mercilessly about anything and everything he could think of. Now though, he relented and left both Omi *and* Ken alone. Too bad. The argument had been comforting.

Deprived of that distraction, Youji sighed and ran a hand through his hair, pulling out one of his remaining cigarettes and holding it unlit between his teeth. He could feel Ken and Omi's eyes on him, questioning, asking what was bothering him without saying a word. He grumbled a few obscenities around the cigarette and shoved his sunnies higher up on his face, to hide his eyes. "Aya looks like shit." He observed, noted how it came out sounding like a complaint. Ken and Omi's eyes slid off him to consider the redhead. Ken looked like he was about to say something comforting but changed his mind, his jaw shut with a snap.

Omi on the other hand, turned back to Youji with big, blue eyes and, ignoring reality, smiled a little and assured him, "Don't worry, Youji-kun, he doesn't look *that* bad. Aya-kun'll be just fine. He has to be, right?" A flash of worry bordering on fear, "Right, Youji-kun?" He sounded like he feared maybe Youji or Ken were keeping something from him. "He *will* be okay, won't he, Youji-kun?"

Ken turned to him, too, his chocolate eyes echoing the question and the concern, and Youji groaned. Geez, did *everyone* have to turn to him for answers? Sometimes he absolutely *hated* being the eldest. What did they expect him to say? To do? Did they expect him to make them feel better? Say yes, of course Aya'd be just peachy? He couldn't do that. He wasn't a rock. He didn't know how to take care of them. Hell, he could barely take care of himself.

Calm. Leadership. Control. That wasn't *his* job. That was *Aya's* job. Although, he admitted, Aya didn't much seem like the expert of 'taking care of things' that they'd always thought he was. Not anymore. Oh well. He'd always sort of known there was something under all that armor. Something that was a hell of a lot more vulnerable than Aya liked to let on. Maybe more vulnerable than even Aya himself knew.

A few moments of silence, long minutes in which Youji's mind took matters into its own hands and decided to wander again. Aimlessly at first, perusing mundane matters like how much beer they had left in the fridge back at the flower shop, what he and Ken would do for dinner, if they decided they didn't want to go home yet, if he should step out for another pack of cigarettes. And then along other lines, about more immediate worries. About something that had been niggling at his mind since last night.

"Omi…" He paused, waited until he was sure he had their attention. He did. Their eyes hadn't ever really shifted from him, still waiting for that, 'sure, it'll all be fine' that he couldn't give them. "Omi, what *happened*?"

He needed to know. Above all, *this* he needed to know. Over the years, over the fighting and the killing and the arguing, bickering, and plain old *hurting*, he'd become rather good friends with the redhead. Better friends than he'd thought they could have become on that first day, after that first verbal dig.

/ /You've no nerve…/ /

He'd been surprised when their friendship had survived the…incident with As--Neu. *Neu*, for godsakes, *not* Asuka. The incident with Neu. He'd been pissed off at Aya's insistence, wanting to know where his sister was, wanting Youji to question the love of his life as if she were a common criminal. And Aya had been furious about Youji's reluctance to do so, had been furious about Youji's seeming indifference concerning the safety of the one person who was very likely Aya's only reason even to live at that point. It had actually come to blows between them. It had taken Ken and Omi's intervention to break it up.

And the worst part was…he hadn't even known whether she *was* Asuka or not. He probably never would. She could have just been Asuka's doppelganger, someone who looked strikingly similar to Asuka. The way Sakura and Aya-chan resembled each other. Even he'd had his suspicions, taking her to that restaurant, that shop, just to see if she would make the same choices in seating, in clothing, that Asuka had made. He'd been unsure of her identity, uncertain whether or not she was who he thought she was, who he *wanted* her to be. And even in that uncertainty he'd seen fit to disregard Aya-chan's safety.

Of course, she hadn't been *Aya-chan* then. She'd been a name he more readily associated with a completely different face, a completely different person. She'd been a word, a name that slipped unbidden through the *other* Aya's lips. She'd been nothing more than a shadow over Aya's moods, in his eyes. An unseen, voiceless thing that was almost a presence sometimes, but that was all.

Now that she was more than that, now that she was *Aya-chan*, and not just some faceless ghost, now that she was a cheerful face in the morning, an extra pair of hands in the shop, a source of lunch, breakfast and mid-afternoon snacks… Well, *now* he felt guilty for choosing a *possible* Asuka over her. Especially since he'd *known* she was in danger.

And his choice had put the *rest* of Weiss in danger, too. It had gotten Omi hurt. Almost got them all killed. And Aya hadn't said a word about it afterward. Hadn't even bothered to glare at him. It had taken Youji *days* to figure out that Aya wasn't mad at him anymore. That there *was* not a grudge. He hadn't expected that. He'd expected Aya to point out how stupid he had been. How gullible. How *selfish*. He hadn't expected Aya to understand what he'd lost.

And he *had* been stupid, selfish, blind. Looking back, it was all so *obvious*. She'd just been too good to be true. And when things seemed that good, well, Youji should have known enough by then to realize that that was a cue to start running.

It had been so *stupid* to keep praying all those years, to keep hoping. Fat lot of good that had done *any* of them, praying. Sometimes he thought Farfarello had one thing right. God had it in for the *lot* of them. Hope and prayer and just wanting it to be true hadn't gotten him anywhere. Had gotten him more screwed over, in fact. He wondered if it would be just as stupid to move onto something else. To let it all go and start over. He wondered if that would just be opening himself up to be hurt again.

It was true that he'd had more than his fair share of sexual trysts during his years with Weiss, but Youji had long since let the concepts of love and lust run together. It blinded him to the possibilities of actually getting acquainted with his numerous 'dates' in more ways than one. And even knowing exactly how fucked up he was didn't help. He couldn't avoid comparing each and every one of them to *her*. He tried to blank his mind of her, sometimes, when the girl with him was particularly pretty or cute or beautiful. But it didn't do any good. He could never get past the pretty and the cute and the beautiful to the person inside. And, because of Youji's inability to do so, they would always fall short.

And night after disappointed night, when he staggered in drunk, sick and disheartened, Aya hadn't said a word to condemn him. Actually, he hadn't said a word about it at all, condemning or otherwise, but he *had* unlocked the door to let Youji in on those occasions when he forgot or lost his keys. With Aya, that was a lot. That was probably more than Youji had deserved.

"What happened to Aya?" He asked, itching to light his smoke, just so his hands would have something to do.

"I don't know, Youji-kun." Omi replied, his voice young and serious. "I told you over the comms. He just…wasn't *there* anymore." He shrugged, not a gesture of indifference, but of his inability to explain.

"Like Takatori?" Ken piped up, repeating what Omi had said last night.

"No. Kind of, but not *really*." Omi chewed on his lip, eyes distant with thought or drugs. Youji wasn't really sure which. "With Takatori he still *saw* things." He shrugged again, at a loss for words. "It was like it wasn't even *Aya* in there anymore. I don't know."

Ken frowned, his chin resting on his arms again, and mumbled something about Aya being a lunatic and a health hazard and getting someone killed one of these days. His anger had faded somewhat by now, and it occurred to Youji that he hadn't really been mad at Aya's loss of control. He'd been mad at Aya for putting them and Omi in danger. Because he'd put *himself* in danger. Because he'd scared the living shit out of Ken.

"And speaking of being killed, " Youji peered over his shades at Omi, blinked thoughtfully at him, "why weren't you?"

"Don't sound so disappointed, Yotan!" Omi grinned at his teasing, tried to swat at him. The sudden movement was followed by an expression that said Omi was having serious thoughts about not moving again. Ever. Youji tried to grin at him, but it slid away in the face of concern and weariness.

"Don't change the subject, Omitchi!" The nickname to show that he got and understood the joke, but was too tired to do anything about it, "What happened?"

"I *said* I don't know!" Omi snapped, peeved, ignoring it and Youji's aborted grin. Youji rolled his eyes, more than willing to let it slide off. Heck, it wasn't like he hadn't been snapped at before, by Omi or otherwise.

"I *mean* how did you get out? When we found you guys, Aya looked like dogfood. And it sure as hell didn't look like *you* could have gotten him out.

"…no," Omi agreed, nodding a little. Ken lifted his chin from his arms, attempting to show interest, yawning widely when he failed to muster the energy. "Aya-kun got *me* out."

~#~

Omi's memories of the night were fragmented at best, as if the mind hadn't been able to absorb the events as quickly as they had occurred, and even thinking hard, they only came back in fogged, hazed images. Sounds, he remembered clearer, the shouting echoing in his ears without pictures, or with brief still images. Tugging Aya's arm to get him back on his feet, the accompaniment of gunshots and curses a discordant symphony in his ears, the echo of running, of boots on tile, beat a manic rhythm, a hyperactive drummer out of control.

/ /A flash of bright hair, and Aya was gone…/ /

/ /Abyssinian? Abyssinian!!!/ /

/ /Aya's gun…/ /

/ /Balinese. There's a problem with Abyssinian./ /

/ /His only hope now was Aya's gun./ /

He had some semblance of a memory of Aya coming to, but it was hazed like last night's dreams when you were rudely awakened in the morning. He thought he remembered crouching on one knee over him, determined as all hell to at least protect Aya for as long as he could. Until either bullets ran out or they were murdered very much the way *they* had murdered these men's companions and friends and workmates, or until the explosives went, taking the building and them, and the guards with them, and it ceased to matter one way or the other.

He had no memory of how Aya had gotten to his feet in the midst of all that chaos, or how he himself had gotten to the door, the computer room clear for now, the guards possibly held back the knowledge that Omi was now better armed than before, that he was wielding heavier firepower than a handful of darts.

Aya put his back against the wall beside him, a pace or two further into the room than Omi himself was. He looked confused, orchid color eyes wide and maybe a bit…frightened? He knew he'd been gone, Omi could see as much in the way he way moved. Careful. Uncertain. As if he thought the floor might fall out from under their feet at any second. Omi thought that was closer to the truth than he wanted to think about at the second and banished the thought.

Had it been Ken, or even Youji, he'd have reached out to make some sort of comforting gesture, ask if they were okay. With Aya, that might do more harm than actual good, so he just gave the redhead a slight nod and gestured to the door. They needed to get out of there. Time for questioning later. *If* they made it out.

"Time?" Aya's voice sounded hoarse. It must hurt him to have to ask that, to have to admit that he had no idea how long he'd been out of it. To have to admit to anyone outside of himself that he had messed up. Badly.

"Dunno." As if *he'd* had time to keep track of it while trying to keep the both of them from getting killed. He glanced to the hall, to make sure he wouldn't get shot while checking his watch--That would be too stupid after all they'd been through, too stupid even for irony--and pulled his sleeve back a little with his free hand, holding the gun on the door with the other. "Three minutes."

Aya nodded and lifted his sword--amazing that he'd managed to keep hold of it--and stepped away from the wall, pushing Omi behind him in a gesture that said more of paying debts than it did of protecting the younger assassin. It was his fault they were in this mess, and so it was his responsibility to get them out of it. Omi could see him thinking it, could see it in the way he set his jaw, the tone of his voice as he hissed, "Stick close."

By this point Aya was too battered and too exhausted to put up much of a fight against however many guards might still be out for their blood, but he was, thankfully, 'there' again. 'There' enough to know that Omi would *not* be getting out without his assistance. Enough to know that the price for Omi getting out was *his* own body, and maybe his life. And so he used it, not as a weapon, but as a shield, his katana scant protection now that he was too hurt to use it properly.

All his grace and elegant speed was gone, spent. Every movement he made was painful and forced as he pushed through the first of the guards. Omi didn't know how he managed to do it without getting shot full of holes, didn't have time to think that maybe Aya *did* get shot full of holes. He followed close on the redhead's heels, covering their backs with the .22, shooting anything that looked like it might even be thinking about coming after them. His sniper's aim did a lot to dissuade men who were only after an extra paycheck anyway.

For the condition he was in, Aya was moving with remarkable speed, his run heavy with a pronounced limp, his katana held loose in fingers that could barely grip it properly anymore. Still, Omi was almost hard pressed to keep up, to stay close to him. But then again, he'd taken some hits himself in that damned office and it was slowing him up, even with the rush of adrenaline and fear and running down liquid display numbers to urge him on. Panting as he jogged after Aya's black-clad form, he pressed a hand to his jacket pocket to make sure the disk was still there…

~#~

"Youji-kun! The disk!"

Youji didn't answer, just held up his empty hand, and…"Ta-dah!!" He'd used that trick before. Innumerable times on the women who frequented their shop. Omi wasn't *that* impressed by it anymore. Still, the sudden appearance of the disk in elegant fingers brought a sigh of relief to his lips. Of course. It would all have been for nothing if they'd lost *that*. Youji thought it was all still pretty pointless anyway if they ended up losing Aya. Aya was worth a hell of a lot more to them than some lousy disk, no matter the information contained within.

Maybe Omi had been Weiss long enough to think differently, though. Youji thought it highly likely that the kid's head was scrambled five ways from Sunday. Maybe Omi could see Aya's life as fair exchange for however many lives they might save. After all, losing one in order to save many wasn't so bad, right? In fact, it was a damned good deal.

"Youji-kun?"

"Hunh?"

"What's wrong?" Omi looked curiously at him, concern darkening his blue eyes, and Youji quickly revised any cruel thoughts he'd had about the young blonde. Omi would never see one of them dead as anything less than an absolute tragedy. You just didn't let family slip away like that. No. Despite all his worry and anxiousness, cheery, optimistic Omi probably believed Aya would be fine. Omi probably still believed that his family was indestructible. After all, they had always pulled through before, right? It was ridiculous that one of them could die.

~#~

It was empty. The house was empty. But…that was impossible, wasn't it? They wouldn't leave him alone. They just wouldn't.

"Okasan?"

His cry was soft, questioning as he leaned stood on the last stair and peered out into the darkness downstairs. Faint, deeper pools of dark shadow. The outline of furniture, of his father's worn leather recliner, situated near a window where light used to flood in, of his mother's new vase, the antique one she had been so proud of finding. The one you touched on pain of being sent to your room. The one you barely dared *look* at for fear it might fall over, and then where would you be?

"Okasan!"

The wooden floor was cold under bare feet. He had to hold tight to the railing to clamber down that last step without tripping over the end of the blanket.

"Okasan! Otousan!"

He half-ran to the doors of his father's study, where his parents sometimes retreated to discuss important things. Things the rest of the household was not to be privy to. Things like money and the household account and there being no way out. Both he and Aya had listened at the door often enough. Odd how he understood those words and their implications. He hadn't understood them when he'd first 'overheard' them. He was sure he hadn't. Spying on their parents had been a game. Strange how words overheard in that game now sent a cold knife of fear into his gut.

Somewhere in his memory, something blinked on for a second, a flash of memory, of the nightmare that had woken him. Clear for so brief a moment that he wasn't sure he if he had seen it or merely thought it up. The image of a foreigner's face leering down at him. Of Aya, grown and beautiful by any standards, her hair that lovely Asian shade of black that was so dark it almost shone blue. Of Aya-chan broken and unmoving.

There were tears suspended in his thick lashes and he didn't know when he'd shed them. / /No one is dead. Stop being stupid, Ran!/ / he repeated the words to himself, tried to make them sound firm even though his mental voice wavered.

/ /Aya!!!/ /

Another part of the nightmare. Not his voice. Who was calling for his sister? Was she lost? Was that why no one was home?

/ /Aya?/ /

"N-No. It's Ran." He called out softly, looking around for the owner of the voice. He couldn't see anyone. He hadn't *heard* anyone. Not even the sound of their presence. A cough, the muted creak of the loose floorboard by the front door--The one a two year old Aya bounced on to drive their mother insane.

/ /squeak squeak squeak…/ /

/ /Aya, stop that./ /

/ /squeak squeak squeak…/ /

/ /Aya!!/ /

Carefully, he pushed open the heavy study doors. As always, the left one squealed a muted complaint on hinges that his father was always meaning to have oiled, and always forgot. "Otousan, is that you?" His voice sounded high in his own ears. Not the tense squeaky high of an anxious Omi--/ /Omi?/ /--but the alto of youth. "Otousan?"

No. The study was empty as the rest of the house, dark as the rest of the house. Papers scattered over his father's desk as if the man had just stepped out for a moment and intended to get back to work soon. Some sewing his mother had been working on draped unceremoniously across a small side-table, just set down for the moment. And both his parents were neat, orderly people. They wouldn't leave things in such disorder. They would be returning soon.

He blinked into the darkness, willing his eyes to adjust to the gloom. And found that it wasn't lack of light that obscured his vision. Crying? Why was he crying? What was there to cry *for*?

Another flash. The nightmare was taking over, stealing away the comfort of being in his own home. He was kneeling in rubble, looking frantically for his sister. How could he have let them become separated? What kind of a brother *was* he? And how could he concentrate on finding Aya when his parents were most likely dead? How could he have arrived here, at their office, just in time to see them die? What kind of a *son* was he?

"Aya!!!"

He couldn't see her, and she wasn't answering. And then, he saw…a glimpse of dark ponytails, an unmoving body. / /Oh God, Aya, no./ / He had to get up. He had to get to her. Wiping a hand across his eyes to clear them of tears and dust, he slowly raised his head.

Green eyes gazing dispassionately down at him. A leering face. Mocking. He *hated* the man almost instantly. He had seen him before the explosion, and some gut feeling told him to at least partially blame this foreigner for his parent's death. For…Aya's?

And then he was standing in the empty study again, shaking as he tried to keep hold of the blankets. Aya wasn't dead. Aya couldn't be dead. His parents couldn't be dead. He *hadn't* seen their office building explode and he'd never seen Schuldich smirking as he knelt in the rubble. --/ /Schuldich?/ /--It was all just a part of the dream. Part of a dream that would soon fade.

~#~

They had just a breath over two minutes left by the time they reached the stairs. There was a pounding sound in the background, and Omi really couldn't tell anymore if it was the sound of pursuit or the sound of his heart. Well, at least he knew he was alive if it was hammering away like that.

At least he knew the bullet that had passed through his side hadn't killed him yet. Maybe it ultimately would. The wound was making it extremely painful to move or even stand straight. He'd run the last hundred yards in a kind of hunched over position, twisting around painfully to loose a couple of bullets every now and then. Hunching over brought his line of vision lower, so that when he wasn't shooting, his eyes tended to settle on Aya's heels, on the growing spatters and pools of crimson the redhead was leaving behind them like a trail. He hadn't had the time or the breath to think that Aya might be badly injured. That he might be bleeding out. God, but that was a *lot* of red.

Grimacing, Omi looked down at himself, at the blood pooling out between his own fingers as they clutched at his side, at the rivulets of it that twined down his bare leg, flowing from the second injury on the outside of his thigh. That leg was numb, and Omi wasn't sure if that were a blessing or not. He couldn't feel the pain, but he couldn't feel the floor under his foot, either. He was stumbling a lot more.

"Abyssinian?"

Aya was leaning against a wall, his forearm pressed to the marble, staining it with red, panting, gasping for air as he looked over his shoulder at Omi. Omi had the gun leveled on the hall they had just cleared as he talked. "How are we gonna get out, Abyssinian?" he thought about all the stairs between them and freedom and felt torn between running and lying down to let the darkness come for them. But Aya looked all *too* close to that darkness as it was, his eyes glazed as he tried to focus on Omi, and nearly succeeded. Blood was pooling around his feet. Around Omi's. Neither of them would last long without medical attention. *Serious* medical attention. "Abyssinian!!" he snapped, doing what he would never otherwise have dared to do.

He stepped in close and brought a red-stained hand—the empty one that had been clutching his side—hard across the redhead's face, snapping Aya's head around with the force of it. / /And if that doesn't bring him back…/ / If it didn't bring him back, it would knock him loose completely, send him reeling back inside himself or sliding bonelessly to the floor. But Aya blinked in surprise and shock and glared at him, violet eyes cold and angry and a little more alert.

A little more, Omi decided, swallowing against a hard lump of terror. A little more and not much else. He still looked hazed and maybe a bit sleepy. The blood loss. Aya was going groggy with it, and there was no time to stop the bleeding, no time to even slow it. He would have to get out under whatever was left of his own strength, or not at all. Angrily wiping tears from his eyes with the back of one small hand, Omi stepped past him and considered the wall.

Two choices. The stairs and the elevators. Both were death traps. Omi had learnt enough in school drills and otherwise to know that elevators and fires didn't go very well together, and, just in case Ken and Youji's explosives didn't instantly bring everything down in a shower of flame and rubble, he wanted to be somewhere where he could take advantage of the extra time, not trapped in a steel box. Also, he thought the chances were very good that there were guards waiting on the lower floor for them. They could easily find out which floor the elevator was going to, what button Omi keyed in, since there was no time to doctor the system and anyway, he had abandoned his stuff in the office.

As for the stairs, same problem. Guards would probably be set at the bottom of the enclosed stairwell, maybe at every exit. Also, he thought it very unlikely that he *or* Aya could make it down and out in two minutes.

"Elevator."

"Huh?" Omi turned, then nodded and pressed the button. Aya had finally gathered himself together, at least enough to make the decision for them. The light at the top of the elevator ping-ed and the double doors slid open.

Feeling like he was stepping into the jaws of a wolf, Omi took a breath and got in, started punching the 'close door' button before Aya was even inside. "They'll shoot us when we get out, Abyssinian." He called, switching to hold down the 'hold' button. Aya wasn't in yet. "Abyssinian?"

"Get on top." Aya said, gesturing to the small panel above them. Omi blinked up at it.

"But--"

"Now, Bombay." Sighing, Omi let himself be boosted up, slid the panel aside and clambered out, amongst the cables and winches, careful not to get too close to any of them.

"What about you?" He called down softly, poking his head out over the hole. Aya sheathed his katana and held a hand out for the gun Omi still carried. Smiled a smile that was twisted with either pain or bitterness and shrugged.

~#~

"'Kasan? 'Tousan?" Reality had twisted again, and he was back at his parent's office, arriving with Aya, eyes already blinded by tears from what he had seen on the television screen back at the restaurant. Smoke billowing into the sky. Crowds of people yelling and pointing. The calm, even voice of the news station anchor man, calmly and evenly reporting to the world that a building had been destroyed. An act of terrorism. Details to follow after this commercial break.

The wreckage of what had only this morning been an office building. He had seen it still standing and whole when he'd ridded in with his father, and then walked the short distance to his part time job.

Another explosion. He was running through halls, breath burning in his throat. Again trying to protect someone, feeling helpless again, feeling again like would fail. And then he blinked and it was gone and he was looking for Aya. Dark ponytails and an unmoving body. Would she ever wake up? All of this for her. Why didn't she wake up?

He was still standing in the study, blinking at scattered papers through a veil of unshed tears. "'Kasan! 'Tousan! Where are you?" His voice was a whisper, afraid that if he let it become more, it would become a scream. Afraid that if he let that happen he wouldn't be able to *stop* screaming.

/ /Aya./ /

~#~

Sitting on top of the elevator as they descended, watching the walls of the concrete shaft slide by, Omi worried his lower lip and loaded his crossbow, readied the remaining three or four darts he still carried. His hands were unsteady, shaking from fear and worry. Fear for Aya, who was, as usual, laying the blame for this disaster on his own shoulders. Omi knew what the redhead was planning, and Omi knew better than to try and stop him.

He would have, if he'd had a better plan, but he had none. He knew Aya was gambling, the way Youji often did. Except that when Aya laid the chips on the table, it wasn't all or nothing like it was with Ken and Youji. When Aya gambled, he knew the odds and this time the odds were one of them, or neither, but not both. Both was too much to ask for. And if one had to go down, well, Aya would see to it that he was the one to do so. After all, he'd already failed them once this night. Omi could see he was determined to at least *try* to fix that.

The elevator jerked to a halt and Omi got quickly to a crouch. Checked his watch. Fingered his ear in a vain gesture, feeling the button of the damaged comm, pushing it in--just in case--and getting no tone. He hadn't expected to. Checked his watch again. One minute. Thirty seconds. Oh, God. Could they make it? It would be close.

A chime as the elevator doors slid smoothly open. Aya yelling. Sound of fighting from below. Aya crying out in the wake of a gunshot. More fighting. Sounds of metal on metal. Omi shuddered. Omi had to put his crossbow down on the bare metal in front of him to keep from flinging the hatch open and trying to help Aya.

They had just under one minute when the sounds of battle died down. They? Omi sincerely hoped it was 'they', though the part of his mind that had been so well schooled in logic told him that he was alone now. That Aya was killed and the guards still on the prowl below, unaware of the explosives liberally strung about the place. That he was as good as dead as soon as he showed himself.

But then, the numbers on his watch were running down fast, so he was as good as dead if he *didn't* …and a slim chance was still a far cry better than no chance at all. He really had no choice *but* to slide the panel aside and slip down into the elevator. Even as he did so, prying up the handle on top of the thing and lifting it with sore, shaking arms, he wondered if maybe there wasn't an easier way out. Maybe he should warn the guards of the impending explosions. Maybe that trade would be enough to buy his life and Aya's.

But even as the stray thought entered his mind, he dismissed it, grimacing. It wouldn't be *wrong* to, not really. These men and the occasional woman amongst them certainly hadn't done anything to deserve death. Were by far cleaner and purer than any of *them*. But they were witnesses and that was enough. Enough, anyway, to sign their death warrants. That had always been the rule and always would be. No witnesses.

Taking a deep breath and whispering a quick, but heartfelt prayer, Omi grasped the edge of the rectangular hole with one hand and his loaded crossbow with the other, swung down, pointing the bolt towards the door, almost pulling the trigger as he landed hard, causing fire to shoot up his injured leg and the elevator to shake a bit. Good thing he'd managed to curb that instinct to fire and run. The figure standing just outside the elevator wasn't a guard, but Aya, still on his feet despite the outrageous amount of blood pooling around his feet, running down his face. Omi was sure that not all of the crimson rivulets twining down his blade came from his adversaries. At least *some* of it was trickling down Aya's arm, to drip and mingle with the rest of the gore on the marble floor of the lobby.

"Abyssinian!" Omi gasped, ducking forward and past him, weapon raised and readied.

"Time?" Aya still sounded like Aya, at least. Or, actually, like Abyssinian. All ice and calm.

"Thirty seconds." Omi's eyes shot to the front doors, then to the windows, tactician brain kicking in like a horse that had been kicked hard with spurs, options running through his mind and being weighed and dismissed at a speed that, with almost anyone else, would have been impossible. Still, it was a depressingly short list. Thirty seconds. Not the best option, but there was nothing that could be done about that. The front door was too much a risk. Side then. The staff entrance. "Come on Abyssinian."

Aya followed mutely as he led the way across the polished floor. Omi could see himself in it. He looked scared and tired and for once, far older than his age. He looked like Aya sometimes did. Like he could be a thousand years old. Right now, he felt it.

Neither of them could run anymore. Aya was slipping in his own blood, so that Omi had to slow and help him. Aya kept glaring at him for that. For acknowledging what Aya could only perceive as weakness, and Omi saw as strength. That Aya had done that to spare his, *Omi's* life, when Omi still sometimes wondered if he, as a Takatori, had a right to claim Aya as a friend. If he even had a right to live when he had killed his brothers and helped kill his father. So Omi couldn't very well leave him, could he? Not while both of them still drew breath. As Youji said. You didn't just let family die.

Omi couldn't remember now exactly why Youji had said that, or in what context, but it was as true now as it had been then. Truer. Things like that didn't tend to mean *anything* until you were actually faced with the decision. And while it had never been an issue which way Omi would choose, his brain kept nagging at him, telling him there was no way in all hell they would both get out. Giving him the same odds it had given him earlier. One or neither. But not both.

He told it to shut up, but it just started reciting numbers at him. Chanting them in reverse order until the rest of him caught up with it and realized it was a countdown, and that it was down to twenty seconds. His heart started thumping. He tugged on Aya's arm. "Hurry up, Abyssinian."

"Omi…" Aya made an attempt to order him to leave, but stopped in the middle of it, blinking into Omi's blue eyes and maybe seeing there what Omi had seen in *his* eyes when he regarded Aya-chan. The thought that was more an emotion than anything else. Protect family. You don't just leave family. The words sounded like something from a bad gangster movie, but the emotion that went with it was extremely fierce, surprisingly proud. He was as responsible for Aya's safety as Aya was for his, no matter who would ultimately have answer to their 'employer'.

Omi blinked. Realized suddenly how Aya could have done all this killing for so long, despite everything, despite what it cost him. Realized how--why--he could do it to save Aya-chan. To give her that chance at reclaiming her place in the world. Realized he, Omi, could do the same for any of *them*. Aya, Ken, Youji…Aya-chan. No time to think about it, though. His brain screamed *fifteen seconds*, signaling all sorts of alarms and triggering another rush of adrenaline as he shouted "Fifteen, Abyssinian!!!"

Aya nodded and gritted his teeth, taking his weight off Omi as if only now realizing just how much the slight blonde had been supporting him. His grip on his katana slipped and it clattered to the ground, Omi scooping it up and handing it back even as he tried to run, a clumsy, faltering limp. Aya's attempt to speed up wasn't much better, was only slightly smoother by the favor of his natural grace.

/ /Ten./ /

His mind attached a neat little factoid to that, telling him that a sprinter could cover a good hundred meters in that time, and they were only a few short yards from the door. Yeah. A few *short* yards. With both of them bleeding all over the place and barely standing. If they met any opposition at all, they were done for.

Seven seconds left as they reached the door.

Six when Omi stumbled and nearly landed on his face. If he had, he's never have summoned the strength to get back up.

Five as they found the energy to break into a mad dash, fear and adrenaline masking the pain. Enough that Omi doubted he'd notice loosing an arm at this point. He'd probably even get off a few good shots with his crossbow before he realized it was gone.

Four seconds. Aya was thrown against his back, bringing them both down in a slight hollow as heat and debris washed over them. Shit. Aya was again taking the brunt of it, when he already looked like he would keel over any second.

"ABYSSINIAN!!!!" Omi's scream rose high and pained, as he tried to twist around and see if Aya was alive, then it was washed away, drowned in the roar of what could only be a second explosion.

Omi's breath was gone in a rush of heated air. Stolen away so that he gasped reflexively, wondering the whole while if maybe he'd inhaled flames and just hadn't realized it yet. If maybe it would take a couple of seconds for his body to die. It certainly felt like he had.

Silence. For so short a time that Omi wasn't sure whether he'd heard Aya's harsh breathing, or if it was his own struggling lungs and wistful thinking.

The third explosion rumbled through the ground beneath his ear like an earthquake. He felt like he was being sprayed with molted metal. A million objects, each impacting with his body with enough force to knock the wind from his lungs. Not that there was much left to knock out. He was practically choking on the heat anyway, darkness swimming in and out around the edges of his vision. If he dared to look up, he thought he'd probably see flames still sweeping over them. He wondered if his body was on fire, or if it just felt like it was. How much heat could the human body tolerate before it shut down?

And then the soft caress of cooler air. Aya moaned softly, and Omi carefully pushed him off, just to feel the night air chill against his skin. Against skin wet with his own blood and Aya's. Who cared anymore, though? They were out. They were out and the night was cool and that was all that mattered.

~#~

Sounds. Finally he could hear sounds. They rang out, echoing down the hallway. He was still in his home, though he didn't seem to have any memories associated with it. No images of Aya, of his parents, of himself.

He followed the noise, shivering at the feel of cold tiles beneath his feet, clutching at his blanket. The end of it trailed behind him, sweeping the floor. He could hear someone calling for his sister. So. That was where they were. 'Tousan's office.

Of course. He wasn't home. He knew why this place was familiar. It was his father's office. He had been here often enough, his father proud of his obviously clever son, even if some of his colleagues made rude jokes about his vivid hair, and how little he resembled anyone in his family, and aren't you worried, Fujimiya-san?

He remembered his father's laughter, assuring them that yes, the boy was his own. Odd that he understood those jokes now. He recalled being puzzled at the time, not so long ago. Only a couple of weeks. He wondered why the *thought* of those jokes and his father's warm laughter sent a stab of pain to his heart. "Otousan!" he called, hurrying down the hall towards his father's office. Half-expecting him to step out of the door with open arms.

/ /Eh? Is that Ran? Where's your lovely Okasan?/ /

/ /Ran. Aya. You've grown since this morning. I hardly recognize you anymore./ /

"Otousan!!" A squeak. Reminiscent of the faulty study door. The floor shook beneath his bare feet, and something in his mind recognized the soft growl that rumbled up through the concrete as the sound of an explosion on a lower level. Something warned him that flame climbed upwards. He needed to find his father.

Abandoning the blanket, he ran, a short-strided trot that still held some of the toddler's falter. He couldn't stumble now, though. He had to tell his father that they were in trouble.

A second rumble, and a wall fell in to his left, sending rubble cascading across the hall in front of him like a parody of spilled water. He just clambered over it, anxious, desperate, dropping to hands and knees to scramble over when the footing proved too treacherous. "Otousan!" He was finally at the door to the office. Finally.

On tiptoes, he turned the knob and pushed, swinging the door inwards.

/ /Aya./ /

What he saw wasn't his father. The man before him was younger than the image of his father he carried with him, and he moved with a fluid, deadly grace that his father had never had. This man was..frightening. Long dark coat. Shining, dripping blade. Red hair. Bodies strewn haphazardly across the floor. Blood spattering across the walls as that blade swung again. He hadn't noticed the others in the room, moving in a swarming dance around the man. Hadn't noticed them until one of them fell at his feet with a muffled thud, spraying red across his bare toes.

He looked up then, at the aftermath of the battle, and met amethyst eyes with orchid.

No. There was no longer any father. No longer a mother. And the nightmare wasn't a dream. The nightmare was his reality.

He wanted to tell this older image of himself that it would have been better if *he* were the one dead. He wanted to tell him that he deserved it far more than the ones laying at his feet.

########

Okay. Moving on to next part. Wheeeeee!!!!