Hello, darlings, all. Sorry about the month wait--a month! Finals, holidays, friends visiting--the stuff that makes up life.Most of this long chapter was written on DayQuil. That stuff can make you delusional. Do not try this at home. In deference to FFNet's new rules, responses to reviews will be on my profile page. But, again, thank you all who read, and commented (much love!), and reminded me that I was burning down national treasures.
This is where school gets you. Quote from "Texts of Recovery" from In Quest of the Ordinary pg. 51 (used without permission).

Standard disclaimer applies. Anime only.
Summary at chapter one. Spoilers: Post Kyoto Arc.
Pairings: None yet.

Now, back to that copy machine...

"The beginning of skepticism is the insinuation of absence, of a line, or limitation, hence the creation of want, or desire; the creation, as I have put it, of the interpretation of metaphysical finitude as intellectual lack."--Stanley Cavell

Screech. Click. Screech. Click.

Tatsumi grimaced as the photocopier began working on a pile of papers he had placed in the tray. Stamp, clunk, stamp, clunk. Time to call the postmortem Xerox man. Tatsumi wondered briefly how Enma chose his shinigami—none of them were actual detectives, except for maybe Terazuma. Certainly not for their manual labor skills. Sadly, there was no postmortem Xerox man, except for maybe Watari but Tatsumi dreaded the results.

As the machine chugged out copies, Tatsumi left its side and headed toward the infirmary which housed three occupants—a comatose Hisoka, a dogged Tsuzuki, and a Tojo who was fated to die, once Watari figured out Muraki's curse. Tatsumi knew the scientist was in his office now, scrambling to read Tojo's markings which, like Hisoka's, were unintelligible.

"Muraki writes curses like a madman—only another madman could read them," Watari had said last night when Tatsumi had stopped by with takeout Chinese. Tatsumi noticed how deep the lines were around the other's eyes. They were not etched, but permanently carved.

"Then you should have no problem deciphering it," Tatsumi replied lightly. Watari cracked a dry smile and grabbed the coffee pot, before chugging from it. Tatsumi's lip curled up in a small sneer. Watari did not fail to notice it and growled deeply as he put down the pot.

"We all have to get our fixes somehow, old man. Even you," he said, turning away from the secretary toward the computer.

Tatsumi stopped before the doorway into the infirmary. Wrapping the welcoming shadows around himself, he peeked around the corner. Tsuzuki sat beside Hisoka, running his hand through Hisoka's hair and crooning softly. In the other bed, Tojo was hooked up to so many machines, Tatsumi wondered where the boy began and the machines ended.

He dreaded entering, but taking a deep breath, he stepped from the shadows and into the light.

"Tsuzuki-san," he began, his deep voice echoing loudly in the silent room. "You need to get some rest."
"Anything from Watari about 'Soka?" Tsuzuki responded, his hands moving to hold Hisoka's hand. Tatsumi moved forward, trying to cross the mere feet between him and the beds. But he could only take a few steps before stopping, swallowing, and nervously (secretly) wiping his sweaty palms on his pants legs. Tsuzuki always left him unsure, a feeling he never dealt with, not even in the silence of his office, when given the time to ruminate.

When Tatsumi acted on his initiative to go in and help Tsuzuki, he was greeted by the burning tea house, terror from onlookers, and the efficiency of the firemen—he always admired their efficiency. But he did not pause, choosing to head directly to the courtyard where Tsuzuki was calling up Touda. He cried out, marshaling his shadows and covering Hisoka and the boy next to him. He yelled at Tsuzuki and flung darkness at Muraki who was trying to flee. There was only the fire, the yells of the firemen, and his need to get Tsuzuki out of there. This case would not end up like Kyoto of before. Where the hell was the owner? Why was Hisoka not moving? And why was Tsuzuki listening for once?

The flurry of activity did not end when he returned to Meifu. There were wounded to attend to, curses to solve, a murderer to find. Mibu-san was still missing. Tatsumi covered for Tsuzuki and Hisoka with their paperwork and sent out Terazuma and Wakaba to sniff around for Mibu-san. He never paused to reflect, to catch his metaphysical breath, but kept moving.

Until now, when Tsuzuki's question rendered him immobile. All of his concern went nowhere. He could tell Tsuzuki to rest, to eat, to relax, but Tsuzuki would never follow his advice. He would have to force him to lie down, to shove some food down his mouth. He hated force. Once he enjoyed a quiet evening, alone, at Noh theatre. And the time to reflect was welcome.

"It's not your fault," he said finally, clumsily, and internally winced. He hated that phrase. Although it rang true, the phrase never did work with Tsuzuki who sighed, and shrugged, and slumped lower, like he did now.

"It's true," Tatsumi continued, trying to add depth to his hollow voice. "You lead me to KoKakuRou, to Tojo, who could be the key to unlocking Kurosaki-kun's curse. We can save those women trapped in Tojo's body, and perhaps save him. And you sent Muraki fleeing. There have been no murders in the past three days." As he spoke, he paid close attention to Tsuzuki's form. The shinigami said nothing, but sat up a little straighter. Tatsumi swallowed audibly, and walked over to the corner of the room. He sat in the small metal chair and watched Tsuzuki stroke Hisoka's hand. Tsuzuki was silent, but Tatsumi could see the corners of his cheek moving.

He waited.

Watari stared glumly as the monitor. With a defeated sigh, he hit a key and shut a window before leaning back and folding his arms across his chest. The lab hummed loudly with the sounds of another computer searching for a curse, or marks, similar to the ones on Tojo's body.

Secretly, he held no hope. For years, he had tried to discover how Hisoka's curse had precisely worked. Hisoka had sat patiently in the infirmary as Watari scanned the marks, and ran chemically scarred hands over Hisoka's small, frozen frame. As a puzzle, it excited him; because he was Hisoka's friend, he tried to hide his delight at unraveling an enigma.

But then, he had no luck (except, as a scientist, he thought, I'm not entirely sure if I'm supposed to believe in luck). And now, he was faced with an ever imposing demand (or desire) to solve this crime. He could only focus on the symbols, occasionally going into the infirmary to check on Tojo.

He did not worry about Hisoka; like Tsuzuki, they were both physically well. Hisoka was comatose only to protect his mind which had been exposed to Tsuzuki's rage. Rest and isolation would give him the time to heal; unfortunately, Tsuzuki could not be convinced to leave Hisoka's side. Tsuzuki—that was another story altogether. Idly, Watari wished he could publish a case on Asato called "Notes on the Case of an Obsessional Neurotic—The Guilty Man."

Yawning, he stood up and walked toward the infirmary, the palm of one hand rubbing the knot in his thigh. Too much time spent with a laptop. As he rounded the corner, he heard low chuckling.

He saw Tatsumi sitting in a corner chair, one ankle resting on top his opposite knee. Hisoka was sitting up in bed, allowing Tsuzuki to mother him—and making it clear that it was on his terms only as Tsuzuki shoved noodles into his mouth.

"Hey, Bon, fast recovery," Watari greeted as he strode over to the boy's bed. Gently shoving Tsuzuki aside, Watari checked Hisoka's stats. He kept his voice cheerful as he asked questions about how Hisoka was feeling, as he shined a light into the boy's pupils. Hisoka's voice, huskier than usual, responded normally to Watari's question—honest with an edge of sarcasm. Watari smiled and let Tsuzuki back in with more food.

"I can't wait to get some sleep when this baka leaves," Hisoka muttered, his mouth full of kimchee while glaring at his partner who ignored the death stare and hummed contentedly. The older man looked up when he heard Hisoka swallow, only to shove another bit in.

Tojo, however, was still unconscious. Watari ran a quick eye over the machines. Without them, Tojo would have died and all the souls would have been lost. Once he arrived in Meifu, with Tatsumi and Tsuzuki, he had slipped into a coma and hadn't responded to any treatment yet.

Thoughtfully, Watari placed his hand on top of Tojo's forehead and frowned. The boy was an older, much more masculine version of Hisoka. Minase Hijiri was a darker version of the Hisoka; Tojo had a stronger jaw, but still stubborn; the wide eyes, but drawn with lines of age; broader shoulders which tapered to a narrow waist. A swimmer's body—a body Hisoka would have had.

Watari's frown deepened and he pulled back Tojo's collar to stare at Muraki's language.

"You're thinking," Tatsumi said. Watari looked up.

"Usually," he countered.

"Yes, but never hard enough that I can hear you."

"Implying that I don't work for my money?"

"Well, I've been looking into some budget cuts..." Tatsumi let the threat hang as he smiled wryly at his grinning companion. Watari left Tojo's side and listened to the soft grumbling of Hisoka as he crossed the room to lean on the window sill next to the secretary.

"What's on your mind, old man?"

"Only how to get away with cutting your funds and not ending up as a woman." Watari waved a hand.

"Nah, my sex changing formula isn't done yet. You'll probably just end up as a bird, or green, or something." The two men chuckled. For a moment, Watari let himself enjoy the warm room, Tatsumi's company, and the sight of Tsuzuki fawning over Hisoka. He felt his sore muscles easing.

"Amazing how they made up isn't it?" Tatsumi said quietly. Watari raised one delicate brow.

"You think they made up?"

"Look how well they are getting along."

"I think you spend too much time in your office, old man," Watari chuckled. Tatsumi turned to look up at him.

"Why's that?"

"You aren't reading people—or not reading well. Hisoka nearly lost his connection to this world—that is, a sane mind—and we know how much Tsuzuki loves him. He's enjoying a living, breathing, speaking Hisoka. Hisoka is enjoying Tsuzuki's attentions. They are relaxing, but they will have to return to the problems at hand. Both know it." Tatsumi gave Watari a queer look before turning to regard the pair thoughtfully.

"That's the most poetic I've ever heard you be," he finally said. He could not help but notice the guilt tainting the way Tsuzuki spoke to Hisoka, the slight reluctance on Hisoka's part to respond fully to the other man. Watari shrugged without really moving his shoulders.

"Well, everything seems to be in control here," Tatsumi added before standing up and exiting the room.

Watari didn't notice Tatsumi's departure. He was too busy noticing the amazing similarity between Hisoka's markings, visible in the short hospital gown, and Tojo's. Whereas Hisoka's markings dipped down, Tojo's swooped out. On Tojo's chest, if Watari remembered correctly, there was a mirror image of Hisoka's curse Mirror, not as in exact, but as in reverse. Hisoka's curse inversed where left becomes right.

Watari snapped his fingers and stood up straight. He had forgotten the story of the golem—of life and death intertwined, separated by only one letter. One word, one changed order created other word meaning death. Muraki inversed his curse, changing the flow of energy. Death for Hisoka equals life for Tojo. EMC2. Energy equals mass.

"Always the scientist, eh Muraki?" Watari muttered as he fled the room, running toward the library. It made so much sense now. A serial killer retreads old ground—Kyoto, murdered women, a young boy, the call to Tsuzuki. Patterns. First thing you learn in geometry is to recognize patterns. Jack the Ripper never left Whitechapel. Muraki will return to young boys and curses, carving bodies, and making them legible, but only to him and those willing to participate in his system of agreements—that is, those willing to entertain the notion of the body as a writing tablet, of boys as sacrifices to deeper appetites. What did that say for him, Watari, that he could follow Muraki's line of thought? The only thing that didn't fit was Oriya.

Watari burst into the library. The GuShoShin brothers, used to loud interruptions, did not look up. They knew Watari and his excited temperament.

"I need information on Izguro Tojo," he demanded. The elder GuShoShin gestured toward a file.

"We figured you would ask, so we did some digging," he said. Watari grabbed the folder and fled to the safety of his lab.

At least that was the plan. As he turned the corner, a sudden shaking threw him to the ground and knocked the wind out of him. White dust rained down from the ceiling and the windows exploded. He turned away and covered his face with the folder. Coughing, he stood up, placing one arm on the wall to hold him still. The ground bucked underneath him and he dropped to his knees. He crawled toward a door sill, slipping on the dust, grimacing as bits of glass dug into his palms. The ground refused to stop shaking.

Someone from Chijou has created a helluva rupture into Meifu, Watari thought. And not just anyone. Swearing, he gripped the door frame and hauled himself upward. The ceiling fell all around him and not just dust, but large chunks of marble and plaster. Deciding to brave the elements, he ran into the hallway, darted around a fallen beam from above.

"Didn't expect an obstacle course today," he coughed and dodged sparking wires from above. His foot slipped and he dropped to one knee. Growling, he jumped up and sprinted toward the infirmary. The shaking was lessening. Over the grumbling, he heard shouting. Speeding up, he jumped over a fallen door and landed at the end of the hallway. Turning, he saw, untouched by a mote of dust, Muraki.

"How the hell did you get here?" he thundered. Again, Muraki had broken through and invaded his infirmary. Twice in one year. Muraki gave him a sideways look.

"A rupture in space and time." He held up a hand casually and stopped whatever Tsuzuki was throwing at him. "Tsuzuki, I tire of these games. I came only for my boy."

"You can't have him," Watari snarled.

"You will not have Hisoka!" he heard Tsuzuki shout. Watari shook his head; did Asato actually think everyone was obsessed with the empath as he was?

"He's not after Bon! He wants Tojo!" he called out. Muraki turned to regard the scientist more fully, tilting his head to one side. He took in the dirty, blood streaked man with a hole in the knee of his pants, covered in dust and clutching a folder as if his life depended on it. Snorting softly, Muraki turned to look at Tsuzuki, aware of the shadows pooling around him.

"Secretary Tatsumi, I'd suggest calling off your darkness before I make this rupture permanent," he drawled. Watari, watching the shadows prepare to attack, inhaled sharply—before coughing up more dust. Muraki watched Tsuzuki chew his bottom lip.

"If I can't have my boy, I will take Tsuzuki-san instead," he offered, as if making a great concession. The shadows reared up and leaped forward, to meet only a solid red wall, a shield around the doctor.

"Take me how?" Tsuzuki demanded. Muraki smiled.

"Oh, I think we'll leave the details to the yaoi writers," he replied, as he held out his hand. Tsuzuki drew back and regarded the hand cautiously.

"Perhaps a better question would be: take you where? Tell Tatsumi to hold back. All I want is dinner."

"Damn if he'll go!" Hisoka ground out. As usual, Muraki ignored him. Watari watched as Tsuzuki reached down and ran one finger down the side of Hisoka's face; the boy hissed and quickly drew back. Tsuzuki then walked forward and placed his hand in Muraki's who tightened his grip and drew the shorter man toward him. The shadows rose up. And then they stopped and melted down into a dark puddle before drifting into a normal darkness. Watari's jaw dropped—Tatsumi stopped attacking. What the hell for? Was he going to make Tsuzuki into a sacrificial lamb? Or had Enma stepped in?

The answer seemed to come when Muraki drew Tsuzuki into his arms, whispered something into his ear, and seemed to shimmer for a moment before fading away. The rumbling stopped, the ceiling dropping plaster for a moment longer.

Then silence. Watari stood in the heavy thickness of it all, afraid to even blink. For a moment, all of Meifu was silent. He watched as the dust settled on the ground. Slowly, noise began to creep in—the beeping of a heart monitor, the voices of others above who were peering down through Watari's ceiling and what used to be their floor. A yelp intruded—Watari turned. Hisoka had leapt out of bed and was ripping out his IVs. Dimly, Watari thought that wasn't such a good idea. He exhaled loudly and picked his way across the rubble. He handed Hisoka his shirt which had been stored in a drawer in the bed stand.

"How can you be so calm?" Hisoka shouted.

"Not calm, maybe overwhelmed and confused," Watari replied, surveying the damage in the room.

"How can you stand there?" Hisoka cried, tripping as he tried to put on his jeans to quickly. The boy swore loudly.

"Years of practice." Bon glared at him and headed toward the no longer existent door.

"I'm going up to Chijou. I'm rescuing Tsuzuki," he declared. Tossing his head imperiously, he exited, back ramrod straight. Watari grinned.

"Hisoka off to rescue Princess Asato? You forgot your shining armor," he called.

"I heard that!" Hisoka shouted. Watari began to step toward the door---and paused. Something was wrong. There was only silence in the infirmary. He turned and walked toward Tojo's bed.

The boy was dead. Watari lifted a hand and shut off his heart monitor. For a moment, he remained frozen. All around him, he could hear the commotion of a confused underworld. Then, in a flurry of activity, he tore Tojo's shirt off and flipped him over. He hands traced over the scars; too clinical to be a lover's. There—a new scar, glowing red, presented itself. The curse had been completed. Muraki wasn't whispering in Tsuzuki's ear; he was finishing his work. His hands dropped limply to his sides.

An overwhelming sadness and exhaustion filled him. Abruptly, he sat down on Hisoka's bed. The folder in his hand slipped to the floor, papers splayed around his ankles. He sat silent, listening to the rapid footsteps in the hallway.

Then--

footsteps in the room, crunching the tile into smaller bits.

"Let me guess," Watari began woodenly. "The three women's souls were just judged. And Tojo's name has been listed." Tatsumi stood by Watari. He knelt and gathered up the file.

"Yes." Watari looked down at him.

"Do I win a prize?"

"Where did Hisoka go?" Tatsumi avoided the silly question.

"To get his white whale."

"Sure to end in death."

"Lucky for us, we're in immortal."

"Or already dead."

"Always the realist, eh, Tatsumi?"

"When do you think you'll be ready to leave?"

"Oh, gimme a half hour to get all primed for our date, okay?" Watari stood up and took the folder from Tatsumi's hand. He held it to his chest.

"As soon as I'm done with this," he replied more seriously. Tatsumi smiled and gripped Watari's upper arm.

"I'll be tracking Hisoka. I'll come back in an hour." Watari nodded and Tatsumi left him. Instead of retreating into his lab, Watari lay on Hisoka's abandoned bed, and used his propped up knees as a desk. He opened the folder and began reading, continuously glancing over at the dead boy as if to remind himself how pressing this job was.

Despite the way it sounds, Watari and Tatsumi aren't officially a couple in my tale. But, do as you wish. White whale is a reference to "Moby Dick." I hope you all enjoyed it and of course, constructive criticism is always welcome and wanted.

Thank you for reading.