Disclaimer: I do not own Gravitation. Maki Murakami does.

Prompt: What if K went after Aizawa?

Rating: M for dark themes, mentions of rape, and character death.

Protective Cost

This was unacceptable.

Not what he was doing now, no. But what had already been done. It was downright barbaric, and a stupid move on the idiot's part. Not his idiot, of course. None of this was Shuichi's fault, and he'd kill anyone who suggested otherwise without the slightest but of hesitation. Even Touma Seguchi, though that would put him out of the job. He would kill anyone for even daring to think that they could hurt the pink-haired teen and get away with it.

Like now.

Fury pulsated through his veins with every beat of his heart, and it was only with conscious thought that he was gentle with the pistol in his hand as he loaded it; put the silencer in place. K, honest to God, like Shuichi Shindou as more than just a source of income and amusement. Even if he had not called in the favor and ask that he be the one to do this, he would have been all over it the second he had found out, anyway. If there was one thing the blonde American despised more than violent acts against innocent people, it was violent acts against innocent people he liked.

"Attacked" was all that had been told to him, but in his head K knew it was more than that. He bit his tongue harshly as he recalled the haunted glimmer in the lilac eyes of his normally cheerful vocalist, the stuttered way his body moved. The way he had flinched, if only barely, when Hiro had touched him. The dead ring of his voice, as though the entire world had ended, as though something had been … lost. It all tied up, all mixed too well, too perfectly. There was no doubt there. None.

With a grim grindclick! he slid the pistol closed, tucking it carefully into the back of his pants as he swung his trench coat over his shoulders. Slipping his sunglasses needlessly onto his face, he closed the door to his apartment and stepped into the night.

(Please come right away. I have a ...favor to ask of you.)

Shuichi was just a kid – a naïve, talented kid who still believed in the purity of the world and lent it his voice to allow in the shine. When he sang, K could feel every emotion in the teen's heart vibrate around the room, and it sent shivers down his spine. In more ways than a few, Shuichi was just like Ryuichi – just as passionate, just as bright. There was a certain … purity, that only those two came with. An untainted aspect, and childlike innocence that made K want to just reach out and hold them against him. Protect them from everything, as he had taken the job to do. As he had vowed to do.

'And failed,' he hissed to himself. The coolness of the deadly metal against his back soothed his self-loathing as he quickly walked down the empty sidewalk, and his glasses glimmered in the streetlight as he darted quickly across the road. The red car waiting before him rumbled lowly, and he passed it with a quick, affirmative glance.

(I'll supply you; no one will be implicated. An unsolved case. Oops.)

The band manager had seen a lot of violence throughout his life; he was no stranger to it; didn't believe that it didn't exist. He knew it was unbiased in it's victims, and chose randomly, like any nonchalant, cruel hunter. Nothing could escape it. And though it pained him, he understood why Aizawa had done what he had – only a fool wouldn't be able to look past the bubbly exterior and inferior starting point to see what a threat Shuichi really was.

'But that doesn't give him a right – an excuse.' Azure eyes glinted beneath the glasses as he finally stepped into the shadows, fingertips grazing the chalk-white wall as he did. 'He will pay for his crimes, and I will repent mine.' He turned the corner, and stopped.

The bastard was sitting on the curb, in the same spot where he had been sighted last. A young man, probably only a few years older than his own singer – K had never actually paid attention to Seguchi's other band, too awed by Bad Luck to bother. But he did now. His expression claimed stupefied, fearful, but his eyes – they held a glint of anger the American recognized instantly, and it made him want to reach for his gun. Anger that came after revelation – Aizawa obviously knew how he had been discovered, knew what it meant. No doubt he had threatened Shuichi to keep his mouth shut, thought his tactics would enforce the order. And no doubt that he was now seething with rage, plotting the scenarios on how best to carry out those threats to ensure maximum pain for his victim.

Jaw set, K stepped out from the shadows.

"Hey, Aizawa," he called out softly – he was careful to keep his voice gentle, unwilling to race after his target. Startled dark eyes lifted to his face as Aizawa's head jerked up, and K bit back a smile at the frown that formed on the handsome face. "So kind of you to wait here for me." So very kind.

"Who are you?" The singer snarled, just light enough to be out of polite anger. K was standing in the middle of the street now, a perfect distance, and allowed himself to stop on the dotted center, cocking his head to the side just enough to come across as a non-threat as he took in the sight again.

He could see why Shuichi would have trusted him. His face held traces of smile lines around the mouth, and the eyes were expressive enough that they would have easily portrayed warmth and trust if Aizawa had wanted it badly enough. He was slim, bigger than the younger singer only in height, and though it had been angry, his tone was soft. Too easily manipulative, too easily disguised. Someone as innocent as Shuichi Shindou would not have blinked twice at such an offer of friendship, and Aizawa had known it; used it to his advantage. It made the gunman's blood boil.

"He begged you, didn't he?" The blonde asked softly, setting a foot forward as the angry eyes took a confused light. "I bet he did." Damn it, Shuichi. "I bet he was confused when you started, I bet he cried. And I bet that you took enjoyment in every tear that fell. Every scream he gave."

The confusion was gone as K took another step forward, replaced by horrified fear. He stood, and for one gleeful moment, he was sure Aizawa was going to run. But maybe his feet had been unable to move, or maybe he knew it was fruitless, because the raven-haired singer ended up simply staring him head-on.

"Why do you care?" He whispered, and his voice sounded so dead that K allowed his smirk to finally come out.

"He's mine." Mine to protect, mine to answer to, mine to beg for forgiveness. You, so unworthy to hear his voice, dared to lay a hand on him! "They are all mine. You should never have thought to touch him. I won't give you crap of having "your future secured" if you hadn't. Had I known you even had such thoughts, I would have killed you sooner." Swiftly, he removed his sunglasses, allowing Aizawa to see his eyes as he glared. It was only honorable. "But you still should not have done it."

He withdrew the pistol before his target could even think to respond, switching off the safety and pulling the trigger without a second thought, aim perfect for the silent echo. He watched, stoic, as the body crumpled to the ground in a puddle of blood, slipping the steaming metal back into its spot.

'What would you say to this, I wonder?' He turned his back, digging into the pocket of his jacket. 'Would you understand? Would you see?'

"Done?" A voice clipped over the phone. K's smirk stayed in place as he held the small phone up to his ear.

"Yes. Clean it up, and keep it quiet. You have two minutes."

"Got it." The phone went dead, and was dropped back into his pocket.

His feet did not carry him back to his apartment, or even to the red convertible that still rumbled patiently, waiting to carry him off. Instead, they carried him across the torn walkways of two alleys, the shattered gravel of an abused street, and floated him across the glide of smooth pavement of a perfected driveway, so far away from the justice he had served. Without pausing he pressed the required numbers, slipping in through the door before it was completely open, and climbed the stairs in silence. When he came to the door, he simply pushed, unsurprised by the lack of resistance, and stepped into the dark apartment lit only by the gentle white glow of a playing television set.

K stopped when he entered the living room, silent as possible as narrowed amber eyes lifted to meet his own. Eiri Yuki stared him down, assessing what could not be offered in words, warning what was clearly heard. Had the assignment been successful? Was the man dead, were they clear of blame? Do not ask, do not speak, do not tell. They were both still at the sound of a soft moan of pain, and K allowed his eyes to lower from the novelist to the small frame tucked firmly against his side. Shuichi slept in troubled peace against his lover, bruises and other marks obvious on exposed pale arms, blanket pulled tightly against the rest of his body.

"Put the gun back where you got it," Yuki ordered softly, hand soothing back pink locks tenderly as the teen shifted at the noise. "And … thank you." For answering when I called.

'You surprise me, Eiri Yuki. With your call and your care. Maybe I was wrong about you. Maybe…'

"It was my pleasure."

That … was really not where I saw this piece going. At all. But when I thought of a K submission, all I could picture was him in this outfit, gun drawn, standing in front of Shuichi who was on the ground. And when I thought of how K would even know of this, well … why not Eiri? It just fit so perfectly.

Let me know what you thought, please? ^.^