A/N: After another lengthy delay, here's the next part. Thanks to anyone still reading, and in particular to Gillie, for your loyalty and patience. It has been much appreciated.

All disclaimers and warnings continue to apply; please refer to notes before the Prologue.

Chapter 15: Coming Home

Omi spent the rest of the day planning, while pretending to be cute and innocuous. It wasn't hard; he'd always pretended and while it might have been a slight strain now—he'd unconsciously let the mask slip a little over the last couple of years, as he'd begun to trust the other three—it wasn't that much of a stretch. The persona he'd built fit over him as easily as a second skin, and sometimes he wasn't sure where Omi began and the hidden Mamorou ended.

Particularly as he'd only just discovered that Omi hid Mamouru anyway, and he was still not quite sure who Mamouru had been, and hadn't quite figured out who he was now. Or who he wanted him to be.

Wasn't even sure, often, that he had a choice.

Still … it was the deliveries, he'd decided. Ken and Aya being at the hospital—convenient as it was—left them exposed. It was only a matter of time before the police came round to investigate, because Ken's condition was way too suspect. Omi had thought, initially, that maybe it was better to keep them there—he hadn't actually expected even to find Ken alive, and finding him and then seeing him in his state had shot his thinking all to hell—but now, with a bit of time and coffee, he could see that it wouldn't do at all. He needed to get Ken and Aya back here and alter both the hospital and police records sufficiently to cover their tracks—which was actually safer than a complete wipe—no nasty suspicious record holes. They were exposed either way, but at least if they were physically here, he had something more of control. Or at least he felt like he did, which was, in the end, all that really mattered, he supposed.

So. They'd opened the shop, Yohji had been a trooper and put up with the new girl by flirting and showing her around all at the same time, and the new girl … well, she looked like a stiff breeze could knock her over, and right now, was a complication Omi simply didn't need. Omi hadn't even managed to flip through the dossier he'd picked up that afternoon, and now it was almost time to close. He just prayed she was stupid, or was at least as dazed as she looked, because he really needed a break.

He'd send her out on deliveries, he'd decided. Constantly. It was what Ken did most of the time, anyway, so it was what they needed done, and it would keep her out of the way. As for tonight … there was actually a convenient one—a love token, to be delivered clear across town, and it would take at least a couple of hours, if he sent her out right before they closed, when there was traffic. And if he wrote down the directions slightly wrong … it would be perfect.

He picked up the phone to call Aya, preparing to be bitched at. At least dealing with a cranky Aya would feel normal.

Normal, in Omi's opinion, was highly underrated.

She was so tired.

The world seemed blurred, seemed unnatural—too bright, too shiny, too loud and raw and grating. The light was glaring and sharp; the voices were shrieking and rough and hard to understand. She was having difficulty concentrating.

But even so, she knew they were trying to get her out of the way.

They looked tired themselves, so maybe she could excuse them from this level of clumsiness, although it was still quite unimpressive. This was the crack assassin team that Kritiker had promised her would allow her to avenge Ashitaka and Yumi? She certainly hoped that this was not the best they had to offer, this smiling blond child and the bumbling blond boy. Weiss was supposed to be the best Kritiker had to offer; a team so lethal they were almost legend. This had to be some kind of joke.

Plus, it would help if this one didn't keep trying to look down her shirt. The sunglasses and that leer, she wasn't quite sure if it was as painted on as the lazy grin and the smarmy charm, but if he didn't start looking up at her eyes on occasion she was going to hurt him. Badly.

Then he explained that they ran a flower shop, and as part of Weiss, she'd be expected to work in it.

In a flower shop.

He had to be kidding.

But he wasn't. He showed her around the shop, explained the schedule, and gave her a tour of their living quarters—showing her the common areas, the bathrooms and kitchen, identifying each of their rooms, including the one he called Ken's, an odd look breaking the snakeoil salesman-smooth façade. They hadn't yet cleaned out his things, he said, and Ken was not, he'd smiled awkwardly… the tidiest kind of guy. The assassin she was replacing, she assumed. Siberian.

She listened quietly as he explained glibly that they didn't have a room ready for her, and showed her a lumpy, crumb-covered, suspiciously stained couch in the basement—the mission room, he called it. But it was just a standard basement—somewhat filthy, without a door, without any privacy whatsoever. Kudoh apologized prettily—she figured, from the way he did it, that he'd had a lot of practice—but it didn't change anything. She wanted to cry. Would have, had she been the type. She could not imagine—could not abide that she wouldn't be able to spend the night in private, with a door and some space between herself and the rest of the world.

But she'd never been particularly patient. Never been particularly tactful. And she'd buried her husband and child not even a week ago. Her belongings, all her family's things, their home, their pictures and photos and even the lock of Yumi's hair she'd … it was all gone. So she pushed away her terror at sleeping in the open room, pushed away the overwhelming thoughts of her past. Easier to be angry. Easier to turn on this smiling blond idiot. So when she demanded, harshly, why the fuck they hadn't cleaned out the dead guy's—Ken's, she was reminded sharply—Ken, whatever--the dead guy's room out by now—after all, they were assassins, shouldn't they have been in the habit of replacing their teammates from time to time? Besides, if he'd gone and gotten himself killed, he couldn't have been that useful any … Before she could blink, he had her up against the far wall, and the look in those jade green eyes had been cold and angry and dead. The look of a killer.

The look in his eyes had scared her. And convinced her. And shut her up before she goaded this guy into hurting or killing her—as much as that sounded almost like a gift now. She didn't argue when he repeated, slowly, that she would sleep in the basement, and that she would not touch Ken's room until one of them deemed it ready.

Then he seemed to collect himself, letting go of her, gently brushing out the creases from her shirt before she collected herself to bat his hands away, apologizing, the flirtatious lady-killer smile back in place. He was murmuring gently about forgetting how to treat a lady, and how the accommodations were most unfortunate, but could he offer her a meal to make it up to her?

The offer was made by rote and easy to refuse. He didn't know what to make of her, and he wasn't as in control as he wanted her to believe. She'd been shaken, yet again, and almost, almost she wanted to call Manx, tell her she'd changed her mind.

As if Kritiker allowed its agents to change their minds. Ash and Yumi were proof of that. And so, she'd chosen to go deeper. Ash would have been appalled. She wasn't even sure, anymore, really, what she was doing, although it had all seemed to make sense at the time …

She shook herself. Exhaustion was confusing her. Focus. Focus on the present—the present in which this guy expected her to sleep on the couch because he wanted to carefully preserve the junk of a teenaged teammate who certainly should have expected to die, and who Kudoh likely knew less well than the girl in the coffee shop he'd taken her to earlier—at least, judging by the ten minutes of knowing winks and flirtatious touches she'd been obliged to watch while he'd assured her it was all a necessary part of her orientation.

She'd have to sleep with a knife under her pillow. She couldn't forget—she was sleeping in a house full of killers, and for all they seemed friendly, they were deadly and remorseless, and she'd be wise not to forget it.

An unbidden image of Ash smiling as he lay on their bed, in their own world, their quiet, safe room, holding Yumi on his chest, explaining his plans for their future and grinning at her to get her ass over …

Didn't matter, she told herself fiercely. Didn't matter, didn't matter, didn't matter. This was now, and she'd have to deal. Have to. Oh, God, she …

She swallowed and blinked and turned her thoughts away. She hated it here already, even though she knew she had to lose the attitude. It wouldn't get her far. For better or worse, this was her new team, this was her new home, and this was what she had to deal with. It was what she'd chosen. She'd better start to learn how.

She still wasn't so sure, however, why it was the two of them were so bent on keeping her carefully out of the way, or where the hell the third—Abyssinian, she'd been told—was. Well, they probably didn't trust her. She certainly didn't trust them, even if come their first mission, she knew she was going to have to. She was the newcomer here, and she'd have to learn, to deal.

It was several hours later, after he'd shown her how to wrap a single stem, a bouquet, how to run the register, which type of ribbon went with which colour flower, where the inventory list and the cashbox were kept, when he gave her a list, a scooter, and asked her if she could felt up to taking on the afternoon's deliveries. She accepted with alacrity. She didn't care if they were trying to get her out of the way—she needed to be away from this place full of screaming young girls, most of whom glared at her or who begged for a hint of what kind of flower her new co-workers liked, as if she was expected to know--for at least a few hours. She certainly hoped the missions were less headache-inducing than working at the god-forsaken shop.

Outside, it was raining, and the world was dark and grey. She stuck the brightly coloured bouquet of pink and red into a box, and tied it with a ribbon, tucking the small card inside. For Mariko, it said, in her own neat kanji. Happy 1st Anniversary.

Ken, lying slumped against the rear passenger-side window, couldn't stop smiling.

He was still in a lot of pain, and it made it hard to do much of anything, but the drugs helped, and ...

He was going home.

The doctor had protested, had wanted to keep him under observation or whatever it was that doctors wanted, and had told him he wasn't thinking clearly, had told him he was ill and dehydrated and … he had been through an … ordeal, was the word she'd used.

The older nurse had told him kindly and pityingly that he was surely not thinking straight, and he shouldn't worry his head about anything and he should just lie there and let us take care of you, and he'd started screaming and screaming and didn't stop until Aya came and he could feel Aya's hands squeezing his own hard enough that it penetrated all the other pain and he was back at the hospital again.

The initially compassionate-sounding, but increasingly frustrated police officer had protested and persuaded and then threatened, after a horrible interview in the x-ray lab in which she'd gotten nowhere with convincing him to say anything about how he'd ended up … as he did, except that he'd been mugged and no, he hadn't seen who did it, and no, aside from his friends, he had no family he wanted contacted, and yes, he understood he'd been hurt, and no, he couldn't explain those bruises or how … and no, he didn't want to talk about it, and yes, he did understand it was serious, and yes, he knew others could be hurt just like him, and … please, please his head hurt, he needed to sleep, and then he wouldn't say anything more.

There had been whispers around him, conversations in low voices. He'd heard snatches of some of the conversation beside his bed. He had been trying to listen, but it had been hard to focus, and he kept drifting out—voices, irritated, angry, anxious, pleading, and Aya's voice, once or twice, rumbling in-between … young man, I don't think you understand … would be irresponsible to remove your brother from our care … needs more care than you can provide … do you understand how risky… dehydration … infection … risk of sepsis …no records of a missing kid … possible concussion … pneumonia … cannot condone … has clearly been criminally assaulted …can keep him here involuntarily if … you're just a kid, how can you possibly care for him at the level …don't you have parents who can … can work out a payment plan for the bills, if that's what … and one older male voice finally snapping, loud enough to jolt Ken awake again, "Do what you want. I guess it's not your funeral in the end, is it?"

And then there had been a moment, a frightening moment, when Aya had come close by him, took his hand and explained softly, "They'll be a lot better able to take care of you here, Ken; I won't be able, maybe, to do everything at home ... it would probably be better if ..."

And for a few long minutes, Ken had thought that was it. Aya had promised, but people promised a lot of things. Ken knew that. It wasn't that they didn't mean what they said at the time, it was just that they didn't always mean what they said later.

"Please," was all Ken had been able to say, nameless fear choking him. "Please, Aya, I won't be any trouble, please ..." He'd promised, was all he could think, even as he felt a wave of guilt crash over the despair, because how could he even ask Aya to take care of him now, when he was … but he couldn't stay here, he couldn't, and Aya had promised; Aya had promised and he couldn't ...

Ken's struggle for breath and words was cut off as Aya brushed hair off his face and squeezed his hand hard, smiling at him gently, reassuringly, and now Ken could see the fear deep in Aya's eyes.

"Ok, Ken, it's ok. I'll take care of it. Just don't look like that. Please don't look like that. Just relax, and we'll be home soon."

Since he'd met him, Aya had never broken a promise, Ken had realized, dizzy with sudden relief. Not once.

Not yet, added a little voice, and Ken wasn't sure whose voice it was, because so many people had been speaking with him lately, he wasn't sure anymore who was real.

And then Aya had fought with the doctors. Had fought with them, because he knew Ken hated hospitals, and knew Ken didn't want to stay. Had fought with them, because he'd promised Ken he'd take him home. And then ... then he did.

But Aya was also still speaking, he realized, and so Ken tried to pull his thoughts together; tried to focus. "… are you listening, Hidaka? I need you to be clear." Aya had a hard look in his eyes, and that rambling tone he got just before sex or missions or after a long shift, that easily signaled he was laying out the Law According to Aya. It was funny, Ken thought, as Aya's voice faded out again, that for a guy that didn't say much, when he was in the mood, he could lecture on like there was no tomorrow. And he even expected you to listen.

" … and when we get home, and until you are well--until I decide you are well--you will take your medication and do what we tell you, and Omi will make sure a doctor comes 'round to check you out …" Ken wasn't sure, but he bet anything Aya threatened Omi with something to make that happen. He wasn't so sure he was happy about it, either. Doctors were all alarmists, and he'd be fine once he got home. All he needed was to get home. Aya would see that—everything would be fine at home.

Unfortunately, Aya hadn't stopped speaking. "I don't care if you don't like pills, or you don't want to sleep, or whatever your problem usually is. You will tell us immediately if you are in pain, and you will listen to every instruction I or any of the others give as it pertains to your health. You will call us when you need anything and everything—you will not try to manage on your own when there is no need for you to do so, and some danger. You will rest when you are supposed to; you will eat when we ask. I will not compromise your health due to stubborn nature or your inclination to idiocy. Do you understand?"

Not exactly a tender loving welcome, but this was Aya. This was his Aya: this was his Ran. And it warmed Ken that Aya was treating him ... well, not like china, not like he was broken, but like he would have treated the old Ken. And that small bit of normalcy was more soothing than anything Aya could have done—aside from taking him home, which he had said he would also arrange, even if he'd only said that after a call from Omi that had made him look like he'd eaten a whole lime including the rind. So Ken just grinned back at Aya, unrepentantly—like he wanted to do, like the old Ken would have done. Ken had always, always pushed himself—since childhood, since he'd been forced to stand dry-eyed at his parents' funeral, since he'd been forced to coach and not play, since he'd been forced to kill. Aya couldn't change him, but he had to give Aya points for trying. And anyway, he'd be fine in a couple of days. He was going home.

Aya was glaring now, because Ken was still smiling like a fool, and at that, Ken surprised them both by laughing out load. Laughing, even though it hurt, because he could see the affection underneath the death-glare, because Aya was there, because he could, and in the end, Aya couldn't help the small smile lifting the corner of his mouth, forcing him to turn away before that tiny smile became any worse, sighing in blatant and only mostly feigned irritation at his incorrigible boyfriend.

So they were going home, and it was ok. He was safe. It was really ok. He told himself this, repeated it over and over until he was sure he believed it, until it formed a mantra in his head, and forced himself to stay awake, to make sure it happened, to make sure he was watching as Aya read and carefully completed and signed all the paperwork, indicating the right places for Ken to sign as well; as Aya wheeled Ken to the entrance in a damned wheelchair he was simply told he had no choice about; as he was shifted to the car with Aya's help and his own feeble, fading strength. Must have been the drugs, because he was so tired; he couldn't live with himself if he really had become this weak.

Tried to stay awake, because even as he willed himself to believe it, and despite the very real feeling of the leather seat and the burning pinch of the IV he hadn't quite convinced Aya to lose and the refreshing touch of fresh air on his face, he didn't quite trust that he wouldn't wake up on the cot below that small, high window the moment he closed his eyes.

But despite his best efforts, Ken finally fell asleep to the low growl and smooth motion of the Porsche's engine, missing entirely the look of worry and fear, but all overshadowed by love, that Aya glanced over at him as he drove them both home.

End of Chapter 15. Thanks again for reading. Feedback is, as always, gratefully received.