A/N: Yes, it's been ages again, but I will try to update less than 6 months apart this year. Really.

I am very grateful to all of you who are still reading, and to those who have taken the time to drop me notes to let me know you are. I do welcome any comments, positive or negative, and for those of you who have already left comments, I truly appreciate it.

Chapter 16: A Longer Road
Sometimes, Yohji couldn't help but think of the younger two Weiss as, well, kids. He knew Aya did too, because once, they'd both done it--asked about the kids, alone in the shop, while Ken was off playing ball and Omi had run off to cram school. After that, Yohji had often talked about the kids, when the other two weren't around, until he'd realized that Aya had stopped thinking of Ken as a kid, even if he still considered Omi one.

And only a little bit because either of those kids would gut them if they'd ever heard.

But ... it was very true. Ken and Omi had been kids, anyway, when Yohji had first joined—juggling classes and midnight slaughters while Yohji wondered why he'd done to get thrown into a team which required a babysitter. Yohji might only have been a few years older, but those were years that mattered—and he'd grown up fast anyway, maybe too fast, after his father had left and before his mother--who had worked in Roppongi all her life and had tried to do the best she could by her only son, knowing that it wasn't much--had died. Asuka had once said, way back when he was, technically, still a kid, that there was something too depraved, too knowing, too dark in Yohji for it to be anything but adult. It was a side entirely lacking in the younger two--for all of his experience and killing and intellect, even now Omi was still a kid, very much so, in many of the ways that mattered. And Ken – well, one look at Ken and you just knew he'd never really grow up. Even Omi—who played hard at being a kid, or at least seeming like one--seemed so much older than Ken much of the time.

Somehow, it made what had happened almost worse, if such a thing were possible.

The voice on the line was still lecturing. "Yes, a very nasty flu, Nakato-san, yes, with all this chilly rain young men should be more careful, yes, he's very sorry …" Aya had asked Yohji to call all the parents of the soccer kids again, to tell them that Ken was still sick, and couldn't resume his coaching until the new year. It's what they'd been saying when the calls had started coming in a couple of days after Ken's disappearance—Yohji and Omi had fielded most of the calls to spare Aya, who, even for his taciturn persona, had been scarcely communicative in those days since Ken's disappearance. "Sorry, yes, it is that time of year, Okano-san, isn't it?" He dragged his mind back, missing all but the tail end of what the harried female voice on the other end seemed to be saying, in-between yelling at the noises of kids crashing around in the background. These calls were tedious and annoying, but Ken had been asking (absurd as it was, it was one of the things he'd apparently been obsessed with at the hospital), and Aya didn't want him worrying about anything more than was necessary. "Yes, Yamaguchi-san, he should have made proper arrangements before taking leave, and it is only because he is so ill … yes, I am sorry that we young people have no sense of responsibility …" Who knew soccer parents were this selfish and demanding?

Having to make all these calls after having to show that annoying woman—Tiffany, she even had a silly code-name--around, Yohji was feeling deeply sorry for himself and at what he'd had to put up with that day. That woman was as chilly as Aya when he'd first joined! Poor Sakura, thought Yohji, remembering the days when the young girl had followed Aya around, hanging on his every word when Aya clearly couldn't have cared less—although, wait, Aya was actually nice to Sakura sometimes, whereas that Tiffany woman had been downright unrelentingly nasty to him. Poor me, thought Yohji then, feeling even sorrier for himself, if that were possible. He sniffed forlornly, making mournful, soulful eyes at a pretty young thing walking past the shop window, artfully blowing a piece of shining gold hair out of his eyes. He was gratified by the look in her eyes, and actually felt a little better when the sweet thing walked into a lamp post. He wondered if he should go out and help her up …

The voice on the other hand had become decidedly shrill, forcing him to pay attention to it and not his current sad circumstances. How did Ken manage to deal with these people? "No, Seguchi-san, I am sure that Hidaka-kun didn't want your son's chances at a scholarship to be compromised …"

But at least the new girl—and it was so hard to think of her as even a temporary part of Weiss, because she so clearly wasn't--had said she'd had experience. According to Omi, she was even older than Yohji was—and she'd finally admitted, after no little effort on Yohji's part to engage her in something that might pass as conversation, over a cup of coffee at his favourite diner, that she'd been part of a two person team before. Takeda, Omi had said her name was, Marika Takeda, because she hadn't bothered to tell him, and wouldn't when asked, ignoring him easily, as easily as he'd been ignored always before Weiss, which had gotten his back up as nothing else could. He'd had to make an effort, a real effort to appear relaxed and charming. "Come on", he'd said, forcefully pasting on one of his laziest, most charming grins, "surely you can do better than that? I know there's some danger we might actually manage a civil conversation, but …"She hadn't so much as smiled. Frustrated, careless, and tense, he'd fallen back to ask the obvious, and something he'd actually wanted to know: "So … what made a nice girl like you end up in Weiss?"

Much to his surprise, she'd answered the clumsy question. "He died," she'd said, and those two words were enough. "He died." With eyes flat and empty, in a tone that quelled anything further Yohji might have said, any further questions he might have asked.

She'd had a partner, and he'd died, so Kritiker moved her to Weiss. Of course he'd died. Just like they thought Ken had. Kritiker's anonymous, covert teams weren't exactly in a low-risk business. Living to retirement, like Momoe, who had only been one of Persia's secretaries anyway … well, it was rare. Yohji was fairly sure Kritiker had a contingency plan to kill off agents that had passed their best before date, where the job hadn't managed to do it for them.

But as for his coffee date—and new teammate, and wasn't that three hundred and fifty kinds of wrong--the silence between them had been absolute. They'd finished up their coffee, and Yohji had gallantly paid the bill. She hadn't thanked him. For fuck's sake, she hadn't even given him her name.

Even before recent events, and despite them, Yohji could not imagine any of the others dying.

Yohji imagined the others dying every day.

And so Yohji prayed, every day, to gods he did not believe existed, that he'd be the first to die.

Yohji had been glad to escape when he'd finally managed to foist the chick off on Omi, who'd alternated between showing her the workings of the shop intricacies—the register, the accounts, blah blah blah--before sending her off on a number of deliveries--the last for some kind of function—engagement, or anniversary, or something--clear across town. And then Omi had disappeared to do whatever it was that Omi did, after clearly ordering Yohji to man the shop and … wait. He'd said the last meaningfully, and so Yohji had. And that had been almost an hour and a half hour ago.

So Yohji spent the rest of his very long shift waiting, while dealing with occasional mid-day customers and the even more incredibly irritating soccer parents—themselves irate, and occasionally concerned or some actually angry—explaining to them that they'd lost their soccer coach for the rest of the year. Yohji wondered what they'd do in a week or two, when they all began calling again. Pissy as the parents were, their kids adored Ken. Ken was an excellent coach, and these parents knew it. Maybe, in a few weeks and after the new year, they'd say Ken … moved? But—Ken would eventually come, back, and he'd want to coach again, presumably—wouldn't he?

What if … what if Ken couldn't come back to Weiss?

His mind reeled with the possibility, and he quashed it firmly. No sense thinking about it now, he told himself firmly. It just … wasn't. They'd figure it out. They'd figure something out. He'd make sure of it.

A sound in the basement distracted him.

Oh, joy. Now he would be the one to tell Aya that Omi wanted him to give up his room for the new girl—Omi reasoning that Ken would probably be most comfortable in his own room, with his own things—and then, when Yohji had looked skeptical, Omi had asked him flatly if he wanted to be the one to clear out Ken's room?

Thinking of the disaster-zone that Ken called a room, Yohji shuddered anew. Omi, as he very often did, had had a very good point. And Yohji certainly wasn't about to suggest giving up his own room.

Then he grinned. Actually, he thought, this could be kind of fun. He'd just bet this new girl had some kind of secret penchant for making things pink and frilly—didn't all girls? He chuckled with unholy amusement at the idea of the Abyssinian's stark, Spartan room covered in lace and fripperies—maybe even with frothy curtains and matching cushions. His smile broadened as he continued down to the basement.

Locking the front door and turning the sign to "Closed"—it was minutes to closing anyway—well, 78 of them to be precise, but whatever, Omi and the chick wouldn't be back until well after the shop was actually closed, he knew, and business was slow anyway--Yohji headed on down.

Tormenting Aya had to be one of the world's greatest pastimes.

If Ken had been expecting everything to be fine once he got home, Aya had no such delusions. Ken had numerous cuts and bruises and burns, several open sores--some of which were already infected, and others of which needed to be watched closely--a strongly suspected kidney infection, bronchitis, a probable concussion, strained larynx, bruised spleen, and several cracked ribs—considerably increasing the risk of pneumonia, although being out of hospital would actually lower that risk--on top of his left leg. There was also the risk of sepsis, and the dehydration to contend with … Aya had been given a laundry list of Ken's injuries and condition, what to watch for and what to do, and with the major injunction to keep Ken calm and quiet.

Aya had almost laughed at that. Keeping Ken calm and quiet was, under normal circumstances, akin to the Danaids trying to fill their barrel—ridiculous, ludicrous, and impossible, given Ken's nature. No matter how they drugged him--and when Ken had been badly injured in the past, Omi had never had any qualms about drugging him, ruthlessly injecting him with Demerol and morphine and Versed, and entirely ignoring any protest Ken might have made--these solutions had only kept Ken comfortable and compliant to a point. After all, this was Ken.

Aya acknowledged that while both blonds were actually fairly easy to tend to when ill or injured (Yohji, in fact, usually had the others vying to take care of him to get out of their shifts, because he made far better company, no matter how ill or in pain he was, than the fangirls ever could), he himself had at times been a somewhat less than ideal patient—but not even he could hold a candle to Ken. After a time, even tolerant and manipulative Omi would inevitably be forced to admit defeat to a mulish Ken. The Ken he knew hid pain, hated to take any medication no matter how benign, and couldn't be held in bed for longer than a few hour stretch by injury, illness, or death threats without a crowbar and three strong men, and then only if those men were also his assassin teammates who were also wise to his tricks. And even he wasn't so blinded by love to hope that Ken would listen to him, no matter how clearly he had stated his conditions--because they all knew that Aya's threats where Ken was concerned were completely idle.

Although, so far, except for the anxiety, Ken had been quiet, docile and submissive. Eerily so. Disturbingly so. Aya, vainly searching for traces that the Ken he knew was still whole and intact, found he couldn't exactly be grateful for the obedience he'd asked for, and just hoped it was just because Ken was so drugged and out of it. Either way, Aya braced himself for the days ahead.

Aya took a deep breath. He hadn't realized how—tense—he'd been as well, at the hospital, while strangers poked and prodded at Ken and while he had been forced to sit and wait, helplessly. Doing something, even something as simple as driving Ken home—well, it was probably stupid. Ken needed more care, he knew, than they could provide a the shop. Aya glanced a look at Ken, who had fallen asleep at an odd angle in the passenger seat. Ken's expression was anxious and tense even in sleep, and his breathing was shallow and rasping in the silence of the car. And he was so, so thin and wasted, so unlike anything he'd ever thought of as Ken. Ken had always been slender—he'd worked at ensuring that his soccer player physique had always been perfectly toned and fit, despite the fact that he ate like a horse—but Aya well knew that underneath the baggy jerseys, Ken was solid, packed with pure muscle albeit sleek like a runner, all hard tensile strength over dense bone. Ken was never frail. Ken always reeked of health and strength and vitality. Loud and energetic, Ken had always seemed to epitomize the basics of life to Aya—born of earth, blessed by sunlight, running and jumping and yelling in the wind. Delicate was not a word he'd ever have associated with Ken. Not his Ken. But now he did—Ken was achingly fragile and weak, the former dark gold of his skin replaced with a pale translucency, and mottled with cuts and sores and ugly bruises. The days of starvation and inactivity had been days that Ken particularly, with his lean build and overactive metabolism, had been scarce able to afford.

At a stop light, Aya turned to take a better look at his dozing lover. His eyes were hollowed and darkly ringed, and the tangled mop of hair was no longer thick and silky soft, but a lank, brittle dull brown. The dark swelling of a sunken cheek was highlighted in the glaringly bright mid-afternoon sun, and there was a nasty cut from behind his ear to the base of his neck. But, in the realm of small mercies, there were no disfiguring cuts to scar Ken's face, and, as far as Aya could tell, nothing that would result in any permanent physical damage other than the rest of the scarring—provided the leg healed all right. It was a bad break, and made worse by not being treated for several days—and, probably moved around during that time as well. Aya didn't know how Ken would cope if he wasn't able to walk properly, or run, and he didn't want to think about it. More importantly, he didn't want anything to suggest to Ken that it might not heal properly, although he had no way of knowing what the doctors had already said to him. Hopefully, in the way of doctors, they'd been non-committal and vague enough that in his current state Ken hadn't been able to comprehend that possibility. He just didn't know how Ken would handle it, not right now.

And then they were home.

Aya quietly parked the Porsche beside Ken's tarp-covered motorcycle—Yohji had carefully polished the chrome and steel each morning, for the first few days, but had stopped and covered up the bike after Kritiker had confirmed Ken's death.

He turned to Ken, and laid a hand gently on his uninjured shoulder—leaving it firm when Ken startled under the touch. "We're home, Ken," he said, when Ken blinked confused and dilated eyes. "You're home."

Ken jerked the hand with the IV port still in, and Aya stilled it. Ken would need an IV, pumping him full of nutrients and antibiotics, for some time yet, despite how upset Ken was with it. It had been one of Aya's conditions on coming home—Ken didn't really need to know he'd been ordered to bring him and had had little choice about it. "This is going to take some doing, so I'm going to go in and get Yohji or Omi—hang here for a minute." Turning to open the car door, he missed the flash of fear in Ken's eyes.

"No," said Ken suddenly, determination in his eyes. "I can walk."

"No, said Aya, quietly, "You can't."

Mutiny was rising in Ken's eyes, and Aya, tired and wrung out himself, did not feel equipped to argue about this. So it began, he thought. He knew he had to be careful, knew that Ken was barely hanging on , but he couldn't really …

"Hey, you're home!" called Yohji. And Aya had rarely been more grateful to see the blond playboy than he was at that moment.

End of Chapter 16. Thanks, as always, for reading. Reviews are always treasured.

A/N: I realize this one was a bit short and a bit slow, but things will move along soon.