Thank you to Neon City, Ainohimitsu, thoth-moon, and Self-Proclaimed Everything for reading and reviewing

Again I would like to express my sincerest apology for the long gap that has occurred between posts. This is inexcusable. Things will pick up once more after I finish the majority of my school work within the next few days.

Disclaimer: I do not own Yu Yu Hakusho; I make no profit from this story

Burning Angels
by R. M. Weiss

Chapter 5:

It was that same sweet melody he'd heard three months ago—a crooning, haunting tone that hung in the air along with the smoke from the burning cigarettes in the bar. He had been sitting on one of the high stools that night, slumped over a sweating glass of bourbon. He hadn't noticed when a stranger pulled up a seat beside him.

"A White Russian," the stranger had said. It caught Kamiya's attention since no one who came to that bar ever ordered anything more complicated than a shot of tequila. He had made the mistake of looking over at the stranger then—his stranger, actually. Kamiya would not accept any other explanation as to why this particular stranger was at that particular bar on that particular night.

Closing his eyes he tipped his glasses back up the bridge of his nose and sighed. The radio whispering the haunting tune was quickly silenced by a scalpel being imbedded in its back.

The silence of the room was almost as nostalgic as the music had been. He had forgotten about the part of that night that had been spent in silence. At the time he'd thought nothing of it, after all, not everyone made noise these days, especially the controlling types.

That's what the stranger had been. Controlling. Controlling to the point the good Doctor was sure the man either had a god complex or an ego that was large enough to cover the city. He'd had no say in what happened after he suggested they retire to his bedroom. He'd been pushed up against the wall by his bed, his pants undone in the process. They hadn't bothered with any formalities. They didn't even take their clothes off.

Opening his eyes he let his chin fall forward and his glasses slid down the bridge of his nose. The silence in the room was shattered by the crash of a folding chair. Kamiya sunk down to his knees, his hands fisting in his hair like writhing snakes. Pulling at the ebony locks he bit back an animalistic groan of pain—emotional pain, the worst kind. He had been to the intensive care unit an hour ago working on his latest patient.

A gunshot victim.

A comatose victim.

"Itsuki," he whispered. The Doctor had heard the alarms sound on the nurses' station when Itsuki's vitals had crashed and gone to help. He didn't know that it was his boss—his boss, yes. Itsuki would be his boss now that Sensui was dead, gone.—he had not heard about the shooting that was claiming headlines on the news. He had gone directly to work after the "meeting" and thrown himself into caring for his patients.

He raked a hand through his hair, the combed and teased locks mused and falling into his eyes. Brown eyes were red rimmed, his tie lying undone around his neck, his jacket half off his shoulders. He'd run to the storage closet since it was nearer than the bathroom. The janitor's bucket had proved just as useful as a toilet bowl when his stomach emptied itself.

This was all too much for the good Doctor to handle. He'd seen Sensui lying dead in a pool of his own blood. He'd seen Mitarai nearly disemboweled. Hadn't he had enough? He really thought he'd had enough by now.

Kamiya slumped back against the wall behind him. He wanted a drink. He wanted a glass of bourbon and music that lingered like cigarette smoke. He wanted to stumble out to a cab with a quiet stranger who ordered White Russians at a bar that served nothing more complicated than a shot of tequila.

Kamiya wanted to fumble with the keys to his door, wanted to fumble blindly in the darkness for his bedroom door. He wanted to be shoved against a wall with his pants around his knees. He wanted to fuck in a twisted sort of silence. He wanted to wake up to an empty bed and a pillow that smelled like cinnamon.

Kamiya Minoru wanted so many things—most of all, Kamiya Minoru wanted to forget everything he had seen.

Beyond the world of the storage closet, one man was having similar thoughts as he nursed a glass of bourbon. Koenma tipped his chair back slowly as and drummed his fingertips across the receiver of his phone. He was disappointed with the news of Itsuki's status. He had figured that, given Itsuki's reputation, the hospital staff would allow a guard to be placed on him at all times.

"Legal bureaucracy and paperwork," he murmured, and inhaled the rich scent of bourbon. On the far wall a plastic clock ticked away the seconds he had until he could leave for the night. Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven—another whiff of bourbon—Four. Three. Two. One.

A quiet knock on the plywood of his door jerked him out of his thoughts. The glass in the police chief's hand clinked loudly against the metal of his desk.

"Sir?"

"Botan."

The blue haired stepped into the office. Dressed in plain clothes instead of the professional suit she wore during office hours she seemed to radiate a certain kind of comfort and self acceptance rarely found in people any more. "You shouldn't drink you know. It's bad for your liver."

Caramel eyes closed in acknowledgement. "You shouldn't work so hard," he countered, "It's bad for your health."

Botan felt a smile pull at the corners of her lips as she sat down on the edge of Koenma's desk. It was no secret around the precinct that they had dated on and off throughout the years, their romance born out of a deep friendship and trust they gave to no one else but each other. It was that trust that kept them together through the fifteen break-ups and sixteen get-togethers.

Crossing her legs and striking a thoughtful pose, the woman tapped her chin with a manicured fingernail. "I suppose I should drive you home. Can't have you running yourself off the road into a ditch, not with the new break in the Eighth Shinobu-gumi case."

The brunette stood slowly and began to pull on the jacket that hung over the back of his chair. He did not look at the glass of bourbon. If he looked on it then he would be forced to come face to face with something he wasn't sure he was ready for just yet.

"Aren't you doing to dump that?" Botan asked, wrinkling her brow. "It doesn't smell all that good...I don't know why you suddenly started drinking it.

A dismissive hand was waved at the glass before Koenma was pulling the psychologist away from his office and out of the confining walls of the precinct. He all but raced through the parking lot as soon as his feet hit the asphalt. When he reached his car he handed his keys to Botan without a word and quickly took over the passenger seat.

The blue haired woman watched him as she drove. "You're not yourself these days," she said. "You're always locked up I your office…or you're at a bar…Koenma, you know you can talk to me, right?"

Brown hair fell into unfocused eyes as he stared out the window at the passing city lights. Licking his lips, Koenma drew in a breath as if to speak only to let it out a moment later in a quiet sigh. He wouldn't burden Botan with his disjointed thoughts. It wasn't her job to help him sort himself out.

Shaking her head, Botan turned on the radio and raised the volume a notch. She hummed softly with the slow, haunting song coming from the speakers. Deciding to take the long way back to her boss's apartment she drove by the exit she normally would have taken and settled back in the slowly warming driver seat. So intent was she on driving that she didn't notice the tense look that came over her passenger's face.

Closing his eyes Koenma tipped his head back and let his bangs fall away from his face. He didn't want to keep tasting the rich bourbon he had drunk. He didn't want to think about the memories the haunting song brought back—memories of White Russians, cigarette smoke and silence, of a wakashu that drank bourbon from a sweating glass.

Police Chief Koenma wanted many things—most of all, Police Chief Koenma wanted to forget a doctor who smelt and tasted like bourbon, and hung around his thoughts like the cigarette smoke in a bar that served nothing more complicated than a shot of tequila.

TBC…

Thank you again for bearing with the wait. Please forgive this short chapter. Transitions are always a little harder to write than most. Itsuki and Yusuke will show up again in the next chapter, along with a little more Hiei/Kurama.