Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, but I had fun making the story.
Shout Out: As much as I love writing, this one went straight through the roof, word count-wise. I don't know why or how, but the story went off the rails because someone up here apparently loves Archer and his ways of trolling. As for next week, I can't say for sure that I will be able to update because I have a health check (had operation recently) and it will take some time.
Warnings: AU on multiple scales, trolling ahoy. I think Harry's assassin friends get trolling EXP to the max somehow just from being close to him…
You told me
To live as if you were to die tomorrow
Feel as if you were to be reborn now
Face as if you were to live forever –
('REDEMPTION' by GACKT)
The Mafia underworld was shaken with the newest strike of the Four Riders of the Apocalypse.
Seven Famiglias. They may have been counted as minor ones in the grand scheme of things, but banded together, their influence wasn't something you could call small.
And there was Alejandro Orsini.
The man had been outright tortured by La Famina himself, driven into madness with pain before he succumbed to the wounds.
One of the Mafiosi had the luck - or misfortune - of not being present in the house at the time of massacre, but he returned back in time to see the results - the mansion in flames, and he risked his very life to get into the burning building in search of the don.
Only to see the state he was in - cut off lips, nose and ears, the cut precise and cauterized leaving behind a gruesome sight, along with the man's stomach being clawed apart with giant, extremely sharp claws, shredding his innards into a mess.
" -a Awina." His last words, choked out from the lipless mouth, muddying up the speech, but -
-coupled with those claw-like wounds - there had been corpses of Freccia famiglia practically ripped apart in the same way, only not via torture like this –
It was undoubtedly the work of La Famina, the Famine himself.
If there were any non-believers, then their words had been abruptly silenced upon looking at the two mansions filled with corpses and blood. Both of the strongholds were filled with the state of the art security, and it was practically unheard of for someone to just sneak in and kill not one, but every resident within the buildings at the time.
La Morte. Death itself had visited them, for which reason, nobody knew. Those who did couldn't speak. They were, after all, dead. Even the most experienced investigators later on shamefully admitted that they had lost their breakfasts - or lack thereof - at the sight of the massacre. And it was a massacre - no one had been spared, not even children themselves.
The third one was the grandest and loudest and the investigators were just about to tear their hair out of their collective skulls in an effort to find out how in the ever living hell did the assailant in question manage to make three buildings collapse within themselves without so much of a warning - the sheer operation was already mind-boggling, and even the foremost experts at demolishing the buildings were struck dumb at the scope of precision blasting involved in the process.
"Whoever they are, they are veritable Da Vinci at using explosives. Taking down one building takes at least two weeks of planning, never mind planting explosives and getting the rig working just so – " Fabio Aquino commented in the late evening news reports, his bristly white mustaches he was so very well known for, trembling in excitement as he motioned with his hands excitedly. "They are marvelous. I would've hired them in an instant, no matter the price."
And that, coming from the Demolition Master himself said a lot. It also caused the investigators even more headaches because they now knew there was a loose cannon floating around, with the ability to sneak into the buildings and demolish them regardless of human lives involved.
It wasn't known whether it was War or Victory - common consensus said it was the combination of the two, but nobody could say for sure. To top everything off, there was also murder of one Paolo Giacometti - the man appeared to be tortured before his death, his knee and wrist bones broken with what seemed to be brute force, along with ribs, the last clearly broken in a manner that suggested an expert at work, before he was finally shot into an eye to forever silence him.
Investigators didn't know what to make out of that mess.
But to the rest of the mafia underworld, the message was as clear as it could be.
The Doomed Seven messed with something Freccia had had before their demise - and messed badly.
No. Not something. Someone.
And that someone was a Sky.
In retrospect, the whole affair should have been dead and buried as soon as it had appeared. With Freccia, it was a happenstance. The famiglia in question had obviously done something stupid enough to piss off the big shots - but what tripped the whole collective off was that nobody really stepped up to the proverbial plate and announce just why had they used the most extreme measures available.
There was also that little scribble implicating the Riders of the Apocalypse. At first, it was an amusing little thing, guaranteed to draw the attention of masses, if only a little while.
Whether it had been a called a senseless tragedy or an outright massacre, people were fascinated enough to talk about it. The underworld had been fascinated for whole another reason – despite Freccia being one of minor famiglias, they were still substantial enough - their stronghold should have been secure enough to at least halt, if not outright stop any attempt on destroying them.
Yet, in the face of Riders, it had proved to be a fruitless endeavor.
Many had tried to find the culprits to recruit them for themselves. Even if they had been Flameless, their skills would have guaranteed them a good place in their factions anyway.
Not to mention the unofficial manhunt after all free and available Actives. Not that there were many of them, but, it was part of the course to look out for any prospects to further the manpower of their respective famiglias.
Rain. Storm. And Sun. Each of them strong in their own rights. Strong enough to turn the heads of those in-know and seemingly unattached.
Rain was a simple, almost unnoticeable teen, called Kuzuki Soichiro. Seemingly unremarkable at the first glance, but a Mist he had accidentally passed, pegged him as a very strong Rain - they didn't know how strong, but if he were to be taken in and taught, he would undoubtedly be an asset few could be.
Storm was one scruffy, dark-eyed teenager with a penchant of wearing a leather bomber jacket. He had been noted to occasionally smoke. His name was Aizawa Kerry. Strange name, and at first glance, one would've thought it was a fake, but when they dug into the records, they panned out. So, maybe a half-blood?
Sun was the most ironic one. The ones who knew old Vongola legends - and who hadn't known these – remembered that Vongola's first Sun Guardian was also a priest. And this one - the priest - was also a Sun, although unattached one. Nobody, however, knew how strong or how weak he was. His name, however, was known to be Kotomine Kirei.
Enticing them with fame and riches failed. Threatening them went equally as bad, if not more so, considering that they hadn't taken well to being forced to join, even if that would have been for their own good.
Instead, the first time they had been threatened with physical harm, they retaliated via doling physical harm to the offenders themselves, sending them back to their famiglias drenched in shame, pain and blood.
However, the Seven persisted anyway, amassing more manpower to bring them down. More people ought to have meant the three elusive Elements would have been easily subdued and caught - but instead, those men who had gone on that particular mission had been found dead. And the most frustrating thing was, even if the assorted famiglias knew who had done the deed, they didn't have any fingers to point at, because no clues had been left behind to accuse the three of them anything.
If they hadn't known the names of their killers, their famiglias would have thought the murders were works of ghosts.
But then, there was the biggest, shiniest prize of them all.
A Sky. An unattached Sky. Scratch going after murderous porcupines of Elements - this Sky was obviously a civilian and so very easy to snatch and grab and especially convince. Some threats, some promises - and the little Sky would fold into the Cosa Nostra, as it was his duty. And the seven famiglias in question would finally - finally! - enjoy the prestige that was afforded to famiglias with strong Skies.
But everything had gone wrong the very same day they executed seemingly flawless plan. Of course it had been too good to be true.
The Sky they had thought to be Unattached, up for grabs for anyone who got him first, was not intimidated by his apparent 'destiny'. And when they sneaked in some unattached Elements to entice the lonely Sky into bonding with them - all the strongest and the best available, of course - it only seemed to piss the said Sky off.
Later on, if one of them would have been asked, the said Elements in question would answer that it was like hitting the wall full throttle while simultaneously trying to solve a very complex puzzle which at first glance seemed so easy even a child could do in five seconds flat.
No matter what they tried - even bringing out the brunt of their Flames - they simply couldn't match this Sky.
They tried. They tried until they had been on the verge of being burned out. But this strange civilian Sky stood there as if mocking them, those unusual green eyes glaring down on them, angry, defiant and promising retribution for their deeds.
It would've been laughable if it wouldn't have been so frustrating in the same breath.
There was also unpleasant intermission of three of their strongholds being blown up without warning.
No witnesses on who had done the deed but it had been so masterfully executed that there was really only one culprit who could have done that.
The Riders.
However, the question was why, and why now out of all times. The Riders were an outside entity, vanishing without trace after annihilating Freccia. What had pissed them off now? And surely, it had to be a coincidence -
Two hours after, late night news about three building collapsing on their occupants heads had been replaced with the ones of another two houses going up in flames. Coincidentally, it was of another two famiglias who were at time trying to court the stubborn little Sky currently ensconced in the guest room. And if the rumors were to be believed, Alejandro Orsini had been tortured before his death.
Only two famiglias of the beginning seven remained, and when they had made a mandatory check nobody noticed that there was anything amiss.
Six in the morning, the newest tragedy had been unveiled to the already shell-shocked city. The last two famiglias had fallen too - maybe not with a bang, but they had gone into the eternal night silently in their sleep, the rooms of the houses decorated with their own blood - only, there weren't any steps to identify the murderer. It was as if they had been killed by a vengeful ghost. Or better, Death itself.
Once was happenstance.
Twice was coincidence.
Thrice was an enemy action… and this time, their enemy was the Riders of the Apocalypse themselves.
An all too apt name for them, considering they had wrecked damage on an unheard of scale, too audacious by far, yet leaving no traces after themselves.
The ones who had seen them inevitably died one way or another. And now, those four monsters were coming after them and heavens and all the saints protect them –
-but there was all too bitter reality of knowledge that it was too damn late to beg for any divine protection. In this kind of work, prayers weren't the ones to be relied on.
They had been proven right.
It took three of them - a priest, some non-descript person and a gunner clad in bomber jacket, and what was even worse, they broke through their defenses like hot knife through butter, those flames snarling around them like starved dogs, baying for blood and not calming down until they would get it and more.
But.
There was another one.
Vivid red and black. White hair, tanned skin and silver eyes and too goddamn tall.
The man appeared practically out of nowhere after Ettore had shot the Sky with gun.
"Che diavolo! – " Luigi managed to spit out, completely freaked out.
What devil, indeed.
The devil with twin sabers, one white and one black, who didn't have any compunctions of springing toward Ettore and practically bisect him with the black blade as if he were nothing but a bundle of straws, Donatello ending with a shattered skull in short order and any time now –
"Fire! Fire, damn you!" He didn't care he was hysterical. This - this man was a goddamn beast, no, monster and Luigi wanted to live, fuck his comrades and goddamn fuck to all hells and beyond that thrice damned bastard Sky - !
This was his last thought as he felt a sharp pain go through the right of his neck almost at the same time when something sharp and painful and wide pierced among his third and fourth rib straight to his heart –
There was a strangled shriek - a horrific yell, which elongated itself into an agonized screech intermixed with maddened laughter.
The sound was terrible enough to make even most hardened Mafioso cringe or flinch away from the doors behind which the terrible experiment had been happening.
"Any news?"
A stern faced man asked the faceless man in front of him. His hair could be likened to a lion's mane - black with a single blood red stripe through it. His face was rugged, with a cross-shaped scar on his square chin. He was clad in elegant gray suit, lazily petting completely white eagle on his wrist, humming to the animal softly as he admired it's elegance.
He was sitting behind the desk that was probably worth thousands, on a black leather chair that barely held his frame, his unusual golden eyes looking at the thin, almost scrawny man in front of him with lazy indifference.
Arnaud Dubois was, on the first glance, just a stupid jock. But anyone who had thought him a brawn with no brains had been in for a very unpleasant reality check if they tried to swindle him.
His nickname Leone di Ferro was telling enough that the man was not one a person would wish as an enemy. The Iron Lion, as other acquaintances knew him, was ruthless and not one to take tomfoolery easily.
"No, sir. We had Mist to try and take the memories of the boss of Trago famiglia… but without success." The faceless man grimaced standing in front of him rubbed the bridge of his nose, irritated, utterly exhausted and not a little terrified.
Arnaud Dubois didn't tolerate failures, after all. And that latest try was utter failure at its truest.
"It doesn't make any sense." The faceless man growled out, suddenly angry at the failures himself. "Those seven had tried to make a coup with that Sky at the helm, that much we know, but from then on – " He halted as if hesitating to talk about it more.
"From then on?" Arnaud hummed, quirking his eyebrow as he lifted his right wrist, causing his feathery companion to screech with annoyance.
"That's what it's strange, Sire. They say they went after three Flames - very strong ones. Storm, Rain and Sun. But from what we've managed to get out from the Mist, it was as if there were all six of them."
Arnaud paused in petting the eagle. Golden eyes narrowed at the grunt. "Six?" He questioned, his voice soft, too soft for such a brutal man.
"Six. Or… Seven. Honestly, we don't know, the Mist was already half-mad when he had gotten in touch with those six, something about them being wrong, and the last one was apparently too much to handle for him."
Thick black eyebrows quirked as golden eyes glared at the quivering faceless man.
"You are telling me we've wasted four Mists and none of them came close to the identity of the last one?"
Arnaud asked, his words stilted with fury as his face darkened thunderously.
The faceless man cringed.
"No. We know the names of the Riders – "
BANG!
A fist slammed on the desk almost causing the massive wood to crack under its duress, causing the eagle to flutter to its wooden perch with an offended screech.
"You found jack shit!" Arnaud finally lost his patience, booming at his cringing underling.
Six hours of something that was close to Necromancy - they skirted Vindice laws so close it wasn't even funny, they lost four goddamn Mists, and what did they have to show for it?
Four names that were most likely fake - there were no such people in the system, and they ran CAI check through them five bloody times, only for them to come out empty, and the only one clue - the only goddamn clue that could get them closer to their target, those fucking useless Mist trashes couldn't decipher because what? It was their goddamn bloody time of the month or something?
"Sir – "The faceless man hesitantly began again, only to be stopped by a raised head.
"Do I have to do everything by myself?" Arnaud snapped out, his golden eyes now fully ablaze as he loomed across the desk, the picture of completely pissed off humanized lion as he snarled down at the idiot in front of him.
"While I am grateful as fuck that someone had bloody wiped those shit stains off the earth it doesn't mean they aren't fucking loose cannons, ready willing and able to slaughter masses of people just because some imbeciles would be stupid enough to have a bright idea to steal the brat from them and - "
He pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling the already brewing headache in the back of his head roar into full migraine at the implications.
"This Victory. Dio mio. Three of them were bad enough. But Victory - whatever he is – " He wearily shook his head.
Four Mists. And all of them driven to insanity when they looked upon this green-eyed brat's ace in the hole.
Death, Famine and War had been terrible enough on their own - crashing strongholds of seven Famiglias around their ears in one night was no mean feat, but Victory - Arnaut got a sick feeling in the very pit of his stomach that if Victory were to be truly unleashed, the damages done wouldn't be recounted as tragedies - however terrible they had been, but mere statistics – because his body count wouldn't be in mere hundreds but thousands, or - God forbid – millions.
And now he was presented with the unenviable task to feed that particular bitter truth to his predecessors. He held back a grimace.
He could already predict they won't be happy about it.
(STELLA wasn't happy place any way he looked at it. He had to be a true god-damned idealistic idiot to have pushed his nose in things that didn't concern him, and look where that had landed him.)
And he would inevitably get an ungrateful job on planning how to detain that particular ghost, just in case.
Arnaut felt his migraine increase as if cheerfully agreeing with his grim assessment of his future, and he really, really wished for Tylenol.
Just wonderful.
NOT.
"Ah.. Choo!" Archer sneezed forcefully, causing Harry to look at him with concern from his book.
"Gesundheit, Archer. Are you alright?"
Sniffling slightly, Archer rubbed the underside of his nose. The tall Servant right now cut a pretty comical sight, what with his strange uniform covered with pink apron with frilly apron strings and with a ladle in one hand.
Archer flashed him a quick smile. "Probably someone thinking of me," He joked, smirking at Harry's arched eyebrow in return.
Exasperated, Harry shook his head. "You are incorrigible." He told his Servant fondly, but closed his book anyway, and only Archer's warning glare kept him on his chair and from any kitchen-related tasks.
It was relatively mild mid-afternoon, what with Kirei vanishing off into catacombs once again, Kiritsugu was torment –ahem, teaching Xanxus the finer points about guns, not that the kitty brat minded, but minded the gun drills very much (Kiritsugu was a veritable asshole in making him execute them, especially dismantling and reuniting the gun parts, and not, Xanxus had come far enough for the bastard to mix and match different parts and Xanxus had to piece the right parts together all by his lonesome. To make matters, worse, he had to have on a blindfold and he was under time limit. Suffice to say, Xanxus very much regretted opening his mouth and announcing that Kiritsugu's fake son got the balls to smooch Harry. Harry, however threw him to the wolves and Kiritsugu was the first one to call dibs on horrified Xanxus' punishment, not that the other two had been any more lenient than the Magus Killer.)
"Eh, you love me anyway." Archer smirked back at him impishly, making Harry groan with exasperation at the man's flirty ways. Half the time Harry wasn't sure whether Archer was serious or was… how Kiritsugu called him - a dandy of the highest order.
But… Harry held back a frown. The last two night, he had strange dreams - about Archer and world turning into flames, and Archer before he had been turned into… that, an archaic assassin, a force of good in the chaos of evil, armed only with his bow and a smile, always happy to help, to share with the orphans his last rations, and always turning the path of good even when things got down to the drain.
He vividly remembered the image of Archer in the backdrop of burning buildings, with strange, pitch black bow and arrow notched into the bowstring, his sand-colored ratty cloak billowing in the wind. Tanned face was serious, those warm golden eyes - Harry wondered about the color - awake and alert, resolutely looking into the distance to some unknown opponent, doomed to death, different swords littering the ground around him - from broadswords first and foremost to more slender and elegant sabers along with strange - falchions - the words popped in Harry 's mind - always in Archer's reach. The only thing to protect his torso was armor - strange, mish-mash looking sleeveless shirt that hugged the contours of Archer's body like second skin
If there was anything that could be concluded out of those strange, mis-matched images, it was that Archer was truly worthy of his title. Never missing a shot, watching him to use that enormous bow of his was like looking poetry in motion.
Harry forcibly suppressed a flush on his cheeks as he mentally face palmed. It was admiration for the man's skills, nothing more, nothing less! He really, really didn't have time to play a puppy drooling after big bone now - !
He opened his mouth to ask Archer about those dreams and their meaning when the cold pervaded the room, causing his instincts to go haywire.
"Harry – "
Kiritsugu's voice floated into the room, preceding the young man's arrival, but Harry's eyes were on three black holes warping into existence in front of him, letting three bandaged forms wrapped in blackest of the cloaks step out of them – no, maybe not so much of a step but glide or warp right through.
The scent of darkness - if there was something that smelled like it, those three definitely exuded it - pervaded the room.
"Harry James Potter. You and your helpers are arrested for massacre of Freccia and the Seven." The tallest one announced, his voice horribly raspy and gravely as if the man - person was choking on his own voice for some reason.
The sudden guest raised their hands, and suddenly, there were black chains shooting toward Harry like livid snakes made out of links and Harry got a bad, bad feeling that being hit or even touched by one of them would be the worst idea ever.
He dived on the floor, barely managing to dodge the attack, while the shots echoed through the room, the bullets moving black ribbon-like chains away from their intended target.
"It's usually good manners that a person, who enters someone home, introduces himself." Kiritsugu's voice was sub-zero, while his empty eyes darkened even further as he glared at the intruders.
The intruders paused as they looked at the Magus Killer. "Why should we explain ourselves to murderers?" The smallest one snapped out. Seemingly ready, willing and able to lunge forward and quarter Kiritsugu with a knife he held in his hand quite slowly and painfully.
"As I said, good manners. Also, what kind of authority do you have to just break and enter this home?" Kiritsugu shot back, eyeing them carefully, his finger on the trigger of his gun, his brain furiously calculating on how to use Accel before those bandaged maniacs take Harry away from him.
Nobody noticed Archer's silver eyes widen with recognition and then narrow with displeasure - both Harry and Kiritsugu were too busy with the live mummies, and live mummies in question had their backs turned to Archer. Archer's hand squeezed around the ladle like it was a club of some sort, but he kept silence, wanting to find out how this farce would turn out.
The tallest one raised his hand, promptly silencing his vertically challenged companion's retort.
"This is unusual, but very well. "he rasped out. "We are Vindice, the overseers of Mafia and you could say were are judge, jury and executioners in case their crimes become too… shall we say, unpalatable."
Kiritsugu's eyebrows shot up. "And when, exactly, did you intend to gather evidence from our side?" He sniped, thoroughly irate now. "When we were cold corpses?"
"That's always an opti – Ouch! "
The middle one yelped as the tallest one whacked the back of his head. Harry chuckled, drawing their attention to himself. He offered a small, tense smile to the entities he was fairly sure they were male, if he guessed by their voices.
"Sorry." He shook his head. "But I really don't think we did anything wrong there." He became serious, green eyes blazing the eerie color of the Killing curse as he glared at the uninvited intruders. "And if you want to take them away from, me, then this will happen over my cold, dead body."
The live mummies as Harry began to call Vindice in his mind didn't bother to take Harry's declaration seriously aside from their leader tilting their head and speaking the verdict.
"You are an accomplice, then."
"Who exactly is an accomplice there?" Archer's words were mild as milk, but the Vindice snapped to attention, their back straight and stiff as if they were on military parade before slowly turning to the direction Archer's voice came from.
The smallest one let out a muffled shriek upon seeing menacing Archer in frilly pink monstrosity of an apron, wielding ladle like some kind of a club, the tanned man's face stretched into a pleasant smile, as if the most feared enforcers of the underworld were nothing but disobedient children.
The middle one scuttled back, whimpering as he tried to use the tallest one as some kind of a shield.
"U-Um... Sorry?" The tallest Vindice's voice came out as a squeak married with whimper. Harry blinked, bemused at the change of atmosphere. Seeing Archer be completely passive-aggressive, looking like he wouldn't do harm to a fly, and then there were those shaking mummies, flinching at Archer's every idle swing with that seemingly innocent little ladle.
"Now, now, boys. Surely you can take some time to explain your fantastic reasoning just why do you want to put to death my Master?" Archer's smile was still that of a harmless housewife, dialed up to ten, eliciting another slew of whimpers, this time from both smaller ones.
"A-Ah, apologies!" The tallest one bowed a nearly ninety percent bow, much to Harry's confusion and Kiritsugu's surprise. "T-this one wouldn't dare!"
"Hmmm?" And was that just Harry, but did that little ladle glint particularly menacingly right now? "Explanation, please?" Oh, Archer was now just being a bitch for the sake of being a bitch. Mentally, Harry face palmed, but he still listened with half an ear to Vindice babbling their apologies – or, in this case, explanations.
"W-we got the notice that the Riders of Apocalypse had wantonly destroyed both Freccia and the Seven! The crime is punishable with death, but if it's you, then – "
The Vindice's nervous chatter was cut short at the merest twitch of Archer's eyebrow.
"If it's me, then what?" Archer asked, his voice still mild, but Harry felt a storm brewing behind. "You Vindice always brag of being impartial and honest to a fault, and yet, what did I have to see there? You three breaking and entering, not even introducing yourself and explain to the guilty party the why's - and for your information, they are civilians – "
The last word had to be some kind of a curse for Vindice trio to jerk back as if shot, but Archer was not finished yet. Not by a long shot. " – and if any of you did your homework properly, then you would find out that they acted in lieu with their right as Elements to their Sky. Or has Vindice failed to condone and uphold the sacred bonding of Elements to their Sky?"
A pause stretched between them, so sharp that one could cut themselves on its edge.
"Elements?" The tallest Vindice echoed, now clearly fumbling for more information on the case. This time, it was Archer who groaned with exasperation as he pinched the bridge of his nose to stave off the imminent headache from dealing with those guys.
"Yes. Elements." Archer repeated, as if telling that yet again to a toddler. The four mummies may as well be that, but really, Archer was truly out of fucks to give.
For Vindice to try and take away Harry because Harry's three idiots were overzealous in their rescue efforts, however lawful they were, was already bad enough, but when Vindice unintentionally tried to take Harry away from him, then there was when they stepped over the line.
He left the ladle in the nearby sink and purposefully stepped toward them, causing them to flinch and dart away - ahh, just like he intended, leaving him free path to Harry.
To Harry, whose eyes behind those slender frames were huge and green and questioning but full of trust. To Harry, who was willing to lay down his very life for those self-same overzealous idiots, and Archer didn't have an iota of doubt that the green-eyed ex-wizard would have done the same for him if need be.
He flashed Harry a small, reassuring smile, completely disregarding the warning sound of Kiritsugu's Contender lock-and-load mechanism as he got behind Harry's back, placing both hands on those still all too fragile shoulders. Then he lost his amicable façade and outright glared at the three idiots in front of him.
"And to top of it all, Harry is my Master." Archer fairly hissed at the now petrified Vindice. "And please do denote that tiny, insignificant fact in your oh-so-lawful minds." He felt his circuits hum and buzz, ready at a moment's notice to project Kanshou and Bakuya.
Archer was fairly sure that if the Vindice wouldn't have had their faces covered by bandages, they would've blanched the sickly white.
"Knowing what I am, do you still insist on taking him to your little rat hole of a prison?" He now practically towered over the miserable wretches.
The smallest one crashed on his knees, bowing to a very unamused Archer, practically kowtowing with fright.
"I – Il Guardiano - we - we didn't know!" He practically choked out, cringing into a very small ball of black fabric as Archer's glare went up a notch.
Make that several notches. Archer let the stew and sweat for several long minutes before he spoke out again.
"I wonder where did justice end and bigotry with malpractice began to run rampart." His voice was cold, emotionless, causing Harry to look up at him with concern as he raised one hand placing it on his Archer's hand lying on his right shoulder. He got back a tiny squeeze, but no other reaction.
"This time, I will let you off." Archer paused, and the three Vindice just about changed in puddle of relief in front of Harry, only to stiffen at Archer's severe voice once again.
"But if I find you've done something like that one more time, I will not spare you, you being enforcers be damned."
Steel gray eyes looked at the quivering bunch uncompromisingly.
"Are we clear?"
The Vindice nodded furiously.
"C-Crystal!" The leader managed to squeak out before those mysterious black holes opened again. Sketching a hurried bow, the trio literally tumbled through them in order to get as far away from the silver-eyed monster as possible.
A minute later, the air in the kitchen smelled only of a delicious stew and good coffee.
And Archer? He smiled at Harry an affectionate smile.
Harry lightly glared at him. While he was relieved that Archer put down the law for those beings to leave Harry and his ragtag group of friends alone, it also raised questions just how could Archer afford to wield that kind of authority.
Distantly, he felt Kiritsugu exhale a relieved sigh and the safety on the guns had been locked on again.
"Fuck. For a moment I thought we were goners." Kiritsugu murmured to himself, slumping into the nearest chair, his fingers already in shaky pursuit for his pack of cigarettes.
He lit one, his face weary with the stress that had upended on him in those few minutes those fucking Vindice bastards practically broke in their sanctuary.
"Archer. What was that?" He addressed his tall, white-haired not-son.
(He refused to accept that any son of his would be taller than him. Just not possible.)
Archer let his circuits cool down, and in an effort to distract himself, he half-hugged Harry. Letting out a devious chuckle, those steel grey, sword-like eyes looked at semi-irritated magus Killer.
"Let's just say it was a question of food chain and leave it at that."
(Somewhere in a distant future, a one-year old heir of a certain clan living in Namimori sneezed cutely before continuing to glare at his nanny in an effort to persuade her to fed him meat.)
(This was the very beginning of what was later named as Great Hamburger Steak Revelation and denoted little Kyoya's first step to being a carnivore.)
Scribble
"I am a Counter Guardian."
Kiritsugu stared at Archer flatly.
Archer was clad all in black, like some kind of a fashionable villain - heavens knew the man couldn't go out of the house without one or another of those pesky fashion designers to beg him to be their model. This time, he had on black, leg-hugging jeans and black shirt with two uppermost buttons left off to show off the hollow of the man's throat and a slender chain, made of mithril lying upon the tanned skin. Feet encased in designer shoes, also black.
(Harry's gift, Kiritsugu remembered sourly.)
Kiritsugu eyed the man up and down again, irked by the smug smirk on his face and feeling vastly underdressed for some reason.
Archer was the type that was effortlessly elegant in any clothes he donned… and that pissed Kiritsugu off for some reason.
"Nope. Not seeing it." Kiritsugu retort was flat and Archer's eyebrows rose in mocking askance.
"You are a dandy. I bet you can't hit even the wide side of the barn, never mind being a Counter Guardian." Kiritsugu shook his head mock-mournfully. "What a useless son I am cursed to bear." He rose his arms as if in despair at Heavens' little choice of his offspring.
Archer's eyebrow twitched as he held himself back not to throttle Kiritsugu.
Suddenly, he smirked.
"Whatever you say…. Old man."
Kiritsugu stilled. That oversized, bleached, dandified, no good punk…What did he say?
"Say that again." His voice was deathly quiet as he glared at his errant protégé.
Archer smirked as he leisurely cleaned his left ear with his pinky.
"Oh. They say the first sign of age is your hearing going. My condolences. You are an official old man, Old Man."
Kiritsugu saw red.
"I AM EIGHTEEN YEARS OLD, YOU LITTLE SHIT! I AM NOT OLD!"
Archer's face brightened with mock-delight at Kiritsugu's outburst.
"Sweet! I am twenty-one and of course, because I am older…" He paused for dramatic revelation.
"I can forbid you to smoke. After all, you are just a minor."
With that said, he quickly snatched the pack of cigarettes from Kiritsugu, smiling all the while.
Kiritsugu was now fit to shot him with Contender.
"I am of age in Japanese law." He reminded Archer, seething, his nerves frazzled and fingers twitching for either cigarettes of trigger. Either one would do.
Archer patted Kiritsugu's hair patronizingly.
"Oh, but it isn't in Italy, and if I remember right…" He hummed mock-thoughtfully "You will stop being actual minor in November, the eleventh, to be exact." He grinned a shark grin at the fuming assassin.
"How dare you deceive poor little Harry with your stories of you being an adult, really. Shame, shame." He tutted, letting his hand be swatted away by increasingly pissed of Kiritsugu.
Archer tilted his head, enjoying needling his teenage 'father'.
"You know, you are kind of cute like that. A jailbait if I ever saw one."
Kiritsugu's mind became blank at the 'J' word.
Jailbait. Jailbait. Jail-Bait.
He breathed in and out. And then, he remembered. A slow smile stretched his lips, causing Archer to pause.
"You haven't been even born yet, so what that makes you? Future jailbait?
Kiritsugu was all teeth as he came close to the taken aback Archer, until they were nose-to-nose, black glaring into silver as their breath intermingled together. And then, he paused.
"No, I take that back."
Archer tensed.
Kiritsugu willingly taking his words back? The world gotta be ending somewhere.
Kiritsugu's smile was now positively menacing, and Archer unconsciously shrunk back on the couch he was sitting on.
"You. Are. Oldest. Virgin. Jailbait. Ever."