Title: Not Even Death Will Do Us Apart
Author: disnaly
Main Pairing: Fyodor Dostoyevsky x Female OC
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the original Bungo Stray Dogs characters or franchise. However, the female OC does belong to me.
Warning: Mentions and mild descriptions of violence. Crack ending(kinda? It's just funny.).
A/N: Takes place throughout Fyodor's life. The story is in snippets with several time skips. This story was written before the latest BSD chapters, so Fyodor's ability is believed to be death by touch.
Summary: Dying and remaining dead are two very different things. It is a distinction Fyodor never imagined he would have to make.
Not Even Death Will Do Us Apart
Snippet Story
-one-
The first time he kills her, he is escaping.
It is nothing personal, really. It is just something that needs to be done. Everyone here is so messed up, there is no saying what they would do. Besides, they would die either way. Best to end their misery, right?
(A small part of him knows that these people are no different than him, that they did nothing do deserve any of this either, but he is too tired of his own suffering to care.)
The blood ripples as he walks towards the other cells so much like his own, where other people-other children-are kept. Some of them are whimpering and crying, probably scared of the screams of pain they heard earlier. He is a little envious; after all that pain and suffering, they can still feel.
His own heart went numb long ago.
The girl is in the last cell, meaning she is the newest addition. By the time he reaches her, his Ability has exhausted him. She looks to be his age and she looks up when he walks in. Her eyes are wide and somehow they grow wider when she spots the gun. His arms and hands ache but he raises them anyway. She stares fearfully (So the fear hasn't been beaten out of her yet.) and her mouth opens. No words come out and she sighs. Then slumps. Her shoulders sag. She is resigned to her fate.
He is glad that she decides not to struggle. He is quite frail and he doesn't think he will win. (A part of him is bitter, though. He wishes she would fight back, but he is also glad she doesn't because he isn't sure he would show mercy.)
"What's your name?" He almost drops the weapon in shock. Her voice is hoarse and broken in a way he knows all too well.
My name?
He doesn't reply, not because he doesn't know what to say, but because he doesn't know. He doesn't remember his name, doesn't remember much about the Before. When he says nothing, she gets the hint. Her eyes are beginning to well up.
She keeps her eyes on her fidgeting hands.
"My name is-" He shoots before she can finish.
-two-
Reaching the city, the first thing he does is choose a new name.
The second thing he does is force himself into a somewhat well-off civilian's home. The ease of it all surprises him; all it takes is a gun for the civilian to start doing his bidding. There is something in the man's wide, terrified eyes that makes Fyodor chuckle, that makes him want to keep the gun to his head to see just how far the man can be pushed.
It's a strange feeling to be feared, instead of afraid.
He likes it.
-three-
His new home has mirrors. He is delighted to find out that his eyes are deep pink, that they contrast so sharply against his pale skin. His hair is so black, sometimes it hurts to stare at it for long. After being deprived of color in that white lab, he drinks in everything. His mind is running without a break, watching, absorbing, analyzing his new surroundings.
He spends his time familiarizing himself in this new world.
-four-
The second time he kills her, a whole five years have passed.
He is walking out a café when someone starts following him. At first, he doesn't pay it much mind, but when the person persists, he moves into a nearby alley. It is dark and he can barely make out his pursuer.
"Now this is a surprise." He smiles, smooth voice echoing in the silence. "To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?"
"Do I-" He stills, the blood within him turning to ice.
That voice. His memory is faint but he remembers her voice; it is no longer rough but still filled with as much emotion as last time. He can still see her crimson corpse in that cell, body slumped against the wall as her eyes turn to glass.
Impossible.
"-know you?" She finishes her question in that same voice, confused and curious.
Fyodor doesn't remember raising the gun, but he does remember his shaking hands. He remembers her ragged breathing as she bows before him, not noticing the weapon.
"I'm sorry for startling you. I just felt like-"
Just like last time, he doesn't let her finish. The gunshot rings in the air and before he realizes, the girl is collapsed on the ground, blood pooling around her form. It takes the sirens for him to realize what had happened.
He barely gets away in time before the police arrive.
-five-
The third time he kills her, he makes sure to get her in the head.
Two more years have passed and this time he can clearly see her. She has grown considerably taller. Her pitch black hair is pulled back and she is wearing a waitress uniform. She looks up and his breath catches. Her eyes are red; not maroon like his own but red. Bright red. They remind him of roses.
His chest is constricting and he can barely breathe. He keeps staring as she stops in front of him, her breath heavy. She had followed him from her workplace and had finally caught up. He can still see her collapsed in that cell and in that alleyway; had she survived both times? Could anyone be that lucky?
(Fyodor doesn't believe in luck, but there is no other explanation. Even with the existence of Abilities, it is not likely. No Ability can bring the dead back to life.)
She was bowing before him again.
"I'm sorry for making you uncomfortable." He almost laughs because uncomfortable is an understatement.
She looks up and he curses himself for flinching when her eyes settle on him.
"Do I know you?"
It is like déjà vu and this time he swears he would do it right.
She is extending a hand towards him. "I am-"
Once again, he doesn't let her finish. He grasps her hand and pulls her forward. She yelps when he twists her hand and pushes her against the nearby wall. The gun is in his hands again and this time he has it pressed against her head, point blank. Suddenly, she stops struggling and she is looking at him, wide-eyed. The confusion has evaporated and her eyes clear up, as if just remembering something.
"I know you." She breathes out. "You are the boy from-"
The blood splatters on his face as he presses the trigger. His hands are trembling but he forces himself to shoot two more times. This time, he stays. He stays to check her pulse, to make sure it is gone, to make sure she isn't breathing. She isn't.
-six-
The fourth time he sees her, he knows it is no use attacking.
Seven months have passed and this time she is wearing a simple dress and her hair is in a bun. She is staring at him, eyebrows furrowed, frowning. After a while, she marks her place in the book, and though his heart is pounding, he forces himself still as she approaches. She stops in front of him and he takes the moment to notice her eyes are clouded again.
"Hi. Found something interesting?" She smiles, gesturing to the bookshelves around them.
He forces a laugh.
"Oh no. I'm just passing some time."
She nods and he thinks that she is going to leave. But she passes him another squinty-eyed confused look, as if she can't quite remember where she has seen him before. She is not the only one with questions, so he says nothing when she decides to stay.
"Have we met before?" There is that curious glint to her eyes.
Don't you remember? I killed you.
He stares at her for another second before extending his hand towards her. She hesitates, then takes it. As opposed to his thoughts, her hand is warm. He would have expected a corpse to be cold.
"I am Fyodor."
Once again, he watches as she seems to freeze. Then the fog clears from her eyes and she pulls away immediately, as if burnt. The red in her irises snaps into startling focus.
"You." She exhales, steps back. There is nothing else to say.
The air is thick with tension and Fyodor isn't sure how to break it. Finally, he asks a single question.
"How?" He shifts his focus back to the books, casually tracing their spines. As if they were talking about the weather, about what either of them ate for breakfast.
She exhales, carefully moving away to lean her back against the shelves, at a safe distance from him. He is surprised when he answers.
"I don't know." She admits, followed by a sigh.
"In that lab." She doesn't notice him grimace lightly at the memory. "I don't know what they did...or how they did it. But this has been happening ever since."
"This?" He glances at her.
She shrugs. "The dying. The coming back to life. At first, it took years. But now...the last time it was almost six months."
She faces him, still nervous, looking for a way out.
"What about you? What are you doing here?"
The questions catches him off guard. What is he doing? For the past years, he has been doing nothing. He has no purpose, no goals.
He shoves the book he had been holding back into its spot, using more force than necessary. Out of the corner of his eyes, he can see her take a step back.
The look in her eyes is the same look those doctors gave him before he killed them. Something in him revels in her fear and he decides that's what he wants. To be someone worth fearing.
(He wants to be the boy who killed more than a dozen people in a single evening, not the boy who doesn't remember his own name. That nameless boy had been weak, both of body and mind. Fyodor doesn't want to forget his name ever again, so he repeats it several times in his head just to be sure.)
He smiles at the woman, watching as she pales. He raises his hand and she moves another step back.
He turns and waves.
"I'll see you around."
-seven-
The fifth time he sees her, she doesn't notice him. She is engrossed in a book and is frowning in concentration.
He seats himself opposite to her because he really has nothing better to do. She doesn't notice his presence until he speaks.
"Learning to play chess, are we?"
She jumps in her seat, the book falling with a thud. He smiles, placing his elbows on the desk, and leans forward.
She grips the edge of the table until her knuckles turn white. Her smile is nervous.
"It's you."
He picks up the book she had dropped, skimming through a few pages.
"Chess is a game you learn through repetition, not through books." His eyes fly over a few lines before he snaps the book shut, focusing his whole attention on the woman in front of him. She tenses when he smiles; sinister and cat-like, sending a shiver of foreboding through her. He notices her hesitance to reply and his smile widens,.
"Are you afraid?" The words roll over her like a blanket, but instead of warming her up, a chill settles deep into her bones. She swallows before replying.
"I'm not." Her hands are trembling and he can't help but blink in surprise. Then he laughs. It is a cruel, hysterical sound. He hadn't been expecting her to lie so blatantly to his face. But he plays along.
"Not afraid, you say?" He places his elbows on the table, leaning forward curiously. "Then you are a fool."
She looks like she is battling with herself, trying to decide if her response is worth dying over or not. Finally, she takes a deep breath.
"Are you going to kill me?"
He contemplates for a moment.
"I haven't made up my mind yet."
Her face turns red and her fear is just so obvious, but she still looks up at him in faux bravery.
"Then you are an even bigger fool than I am. Why would you want to continue killing someone who will not remain dead?"
His eyebrows shoot up in surprise, speechless for a moment. Then he laughs again, this time more out of amusement.
He points towards the thing that had caught his attention to begin with, the reason he had approached her. Pulling the battle ground of black and white between them, he sets the pieces to their original positions.
"How about a game?"
She seems to hesitate for a second as if not quite believing he had let that jab slide. Then, she relaxes and makes the first move.
-eight-
He hadn't been aiming to teach her. The games had been for his own entertainment. And yet, three weeks in, she uses the tactics he used against her in their 12th game against him in their 34th game.
She learns fast. He wins but it is definitely different from his previous wins. She sighs, leaning back in her chair.
"I lose. Again."
He sets the pieces, smiling pleasantly.
"And how many times is that?"
She doesn't deign him with a reply. He wonders how long it would take for her to be good enough to pose a challenge to him.
He is still calculating, when a shadow falls over them. He looks over and there is an older man with white hair right in front of him. He says he wants to talk.
The girl looks between them for a second, then begins gathering her things. She understands social cues.
Fyodor frowns as she bows and leaves.
-nine-
"That seems like an expensive coat." The man glances over, raising an eyebrow.
"It is." Fyodor keeps his face carefully blank; he tries not to think of the civilian man he had stolen it from. The man who was still so generously providing Fyodor with all necessities.
"I wouldn't have expected you to have that sort of money."
I don't, he almost says, but stops himself last minute. He raises an eyebrow.
"Are you going somewhere with this?"
The man shakes his head, seating himself opposite of Fyodor.
"A client of mine had a coat just like that. However, his happened to get stolen."
Fyodor didn't even twitch. So the man had babbled to someone, even though Fyodor had specifically asked him to keep his mouth shut.
"How unfortunate." He forces a smile, shaking his head.
The older man mimics his actions, following it with a sigh of something akin to disappointment.
"Unfortunate indeed." His eyes are sharp with knowledge and it is clear that he knows everything.
Fyodor drops his façade, narrowing his eyes.
"What do you want?"
The man grins and begins explaining.
"I am Ochi Fukuchi and I need your help."
He needs Fyodor to do small jobs. Stealing, blackmailing and the sort. The jobs come with an amount of money that would normally be considered too much.
Fyodor has no problem doing them, but only on his own terms. The man wants to be a puppeteer and Fyodor has no desire to be his puppet.
Besides, it is clear that he is not being told everything. He hates being in the dark.
The man sighs, all melancholy when he says as much.
"I must ask you to reconsider. You see..." He unsheathes the sword from and side, revealing a blue blade. Fyodor waits for the attack, but nothing happens.
Instead, the sword tip disappears into thin air.
"Bad things happen when I am refused. And we wouldn't want disaster befalling you, now do we?"
The threat is clear and Fyodor has half a mind to wrap his hands around the man's neck and watch his skin decay under his touch. But they are in public so he thinks better of it. Fukuchi gives him a deadline and a number to reconsider his offer. Then, he leaves.
Reaching home, the first thing Fyodor does is toss the number in the trash.
-ten-
Fyodor is in a tricky position. He doesn't know how the woman pulled it off, but his situation is pretty bad.
Sitting across him, the woman herself looks smug. She is making him hesitate; of course she is going to gloat. She has every right to, after all those times he had bragged his own victories.
Her knight is close to checking his king, and at the same time is attacking his queen. He could move the queen to safety but then she would move her knight forward and that would put him in an even worse position. Checkmate wouldn't be difficult then.
He glances at the other pieces, his knight, his rook, both her bishops and sighs.
He moves the king to safety. He can sense the glee radiating off of her as he sacrifices his queen.
And suddenly, there is blood everywhere.
He staggers back in shock as it splatters everywhere, drops soaking into his clothes. His chair clutters to the ground. A strangled sound escapes the girl, something like a scream and a wail. A blue sword is sticking out of her chest.
A very familiar blue sword.
"Bad things happen when I am refused. And we wouldn't want disaster befalling you, now do we?"
Someone is screaming. People are noticing. Someone calls an ambulance. The sword has disappeared but the blood just keeps on coming.
The girl coughs and then looks up, and their eyes meet. Her eyes are wide and she looks so confused and despairing, there is a strange constricting feeling in his chest he doesn't have a name for.
She slumps forward and passes out.
He waits until the ambulance arrives, waits until they strap her in, waits until their tail lights are out of sight. Then he walks home.
-eleven-
Fyodor digs the number out of the trash and calls Fukuchi. He tells him that he has reconsidered, that he will help. Fukuchi says he is glad they have come to an understanding.
Maybe the older man thinks Fyodor is afraid. But he couldn't be far from the truth. There is this burning in his chest, that seems familiar and foreign all at once. It's rage. Not for the woman; Fyodor has no doubt she will come back. But what Fukuchi did made Fyodor look like a fool.
And that is completely unforgivable.
-twelve-
Fukuchi's organization is called Decay Of Angels. They work in the shadows of Yokohama, organizing terror plots and whatnot. Though Fyodor has just joined, he knows that there is a bigger picture. He is just another pawn to Fukuchi, just another soldier he can dispose of if necessary.
The thought makes Fyodor smile, all sly and amused.
Fool.
Fukuchi doesn't even know his days are numbered.
-thirteen-
A few days later, a body is found; one of a civilian wearing an expensive Russian coat.
The day after that, a body disappears from the morgue of the Yokohama Hospital.
-fourteen-
She really is a corpse.
No pulse. Pale skin. Cool body.
It is a challenge to get her inside now his house without notice, but he manages. He lays her in one of the unused rooms at the back, so no one catches glimpse of her through the window. She has been on the news for three days straight and he doesn't want to take any chances.
Then, he begins waiting.
-fifteen-
The jobs Fukuchi gives him are easy. In addition, Fyodor is not working alone. There are people under him, who clean up the messes he leaves behind.
There are days he can almost pretend everything is normal. Fukuchi treats him like they are old friends, laughing and talking about the future. But he still keeps his true intentions under wraps.
It soon becomes clear that Fukuchi knows about his past, about the lab, about his Ability. He knows what Fyodor did, all the people he killed. Maybe that's why he wants him on his side. Fyodor marvels to himself; Fukuchi sure knows quite a lot.
But he clearly doesn't know everything or he wouldn't have bothered killing that woman. He doesn't know everything or he would have known better than to keep Fyodor by his side.
-sixteen-
Two months after her death, he notices the change. The hole in her chest is definitely smaller. She still has no pulse and her heart is still not beating. Her skin is still pale and cold, and she does not decay.
(That last bit is something he is immensely glad about because he hadn't been thinking very straight when he stole her out of the morgue and it is only weeks later he notices the lack of rot. He doesn't think he would be able bear the smell, let alone hide it from not only his neighbors but also Fukuchi.)
Her revival is a slow process and it begins with her injuries being healed.
-seventeen-
Fukuchi visits him often, unannounced. Fyodor assumes that older man hopes to catch him off guard or give him a reason to be suspicious, but Fyodor is always ready.
They play chess and Fyodor is surprised. The woman, despite being a quick and efficient learner, was easy to play with; too predictable with her moves and strategies. With Fukuchi, it is different. With Fukuchi, Fyodor actually needs to think, actually needs to focus.
Fyodor still hates the man, but he can admit he has fun when they play.
-eighteen-
Four months. It takes four months for the woman to wake up. It seems like a sadistic thing to say but Fyodor admits to himself that he had forgotten about her.
He is in his room when he hears the clutter of dishes. He is up in a second, his gun in his hand. Walking towards the kitchen, he can hear the sound of water. Someone muttering. A sigh.
He stops at the entrance. And stills.
There she is. It is dark in the hallway, but the kitchen light is turned on. There is her black hair, her tall frame. He waits for her to finish drinking the water she had been pouring, and watches silently as she turns around.
She freezes too when she spots him. There is that fear in her stance and he tries to stomp down on the glee that erupts at that fear. He begins walking closer and she begins to clutch the blanket covering her bare form tighter.
There are those clouded eyes, as red as wine. A part of him realizes he could leave her like this. Give her a few necessities and tell her to leave. He could say he found her somewhere.
But the woman is still looking at him, and now she is confused.
"Do I know you?" He almost laughs. How many times has he heard her say that now?
Extending a hand towards her, he smiles.
"I am Fyodor. You do know me." Her eyes are wide, but she takes his hand. The clouds clear from her eyes and she promptly collapses.
He catches her before she hits her head somewhere and dies again; he has waited four months for her to come back. (Why he did that, he still doesn't know.) He doesn't want to wait four more.
She groans, a hand rubbing at her chest, where now there was no sign of the wound.
"What happened? How did I...?"
Fyodor lets go as she sits up by herself. He thinks back to the events.
"It was that white-haired man. The one who wanted to talk to me."
Fyodor doesn't mention that he works for that man now and it only now he realizes how messed up all this is; him working for a man who killed her. He doubts she would take the news well.
"But...why?" She looks so confused he is almost tempted to tell her the truth, just to see her face pale and her eyes dim in disappointment. Instead, he simply shrugs.
Her eyebrows furrow in confusion. "But I don't think I sensed anyone behind me."
"I think it was his Special Ability." She nods then attempts to stand up. Noticing her shaking legs, he grabs her arms and begins to help. She raises an eyebrow at him in surprise then shakes her head.
He is glad she doesn't ask more questions, because he isn't sure he has the answers.
-nineteen-
It takes two weeks for her to fully recover, two week for to to begin walking on her own, two weeks for the her skin-and-bone look to disappear. The chess matches begin again and though its not too much fun playing with her, he continues. However, the matches do have their own perks; he has a front row seat for watching her evolve, watching her learn from every match.
Between her and Fukuchi, Fyodor decides he likes playing her more.
-twenty-
As the time passes, Fukuchi has more and more jobs for him. He goes during the day and often comes home very late. The chess matches decrease in their frequency from several times everyday to only once every week. The woman asks him about it but he doesn't give a straight answer. She doesn't push the topic much and Fyodor realizes that she doesn't want to know either.
She knows of the darkness within him, better than anyone. But still she continues asking about his whereabouts. One day, he comes home covered in blood that isn't his. He doubts he would ever forget her face; eyes widened in horror, hands clasped at her mouth. He is used to the fearful look she throws him, but this time, it doesn't look as good on her as it used to.
After that incident, she stops asking all together.
-twenty-one-
There was an explosion last night, in a police station no less. It is all over the news. Her face is blank as she watches, not looking up even when Fyodor steps outside.
"Working late last night?" It is a useless question. He doesn't bother lying.
"Yes." She inhales sharply and Fyodor realizes that she isn't as okay with the things he does as she pretends to be. Maybe she is still a little afraid of him. The thought isn't as welcoming as it used to be. Perhaps that is why she doesn't ask questions anymore. She is giving herself the benefit of doubt, silently hoping all these robberies and murders isn't him.
She doesn't ever ever confirm anything with him and Fyodor decides it is for the best.
-twenty-two-
When Fukuchi visits, he tells her to stay inside her room. He can tell she hates it, but she hates death more, so she agrees.
-twenty-three-
He gets injured once. It isn't serious, just a harsh cut on his shoulder, but it hurts like hell. He has forgotten what pain feels like after he left the lab and he doesn't appreciate the reminder. But he bears it because he has been through worse.
It is late so he is surprised when the woman comes out. The first aid box is open beside him but he doesn't know where to begin. She stops, glances between him, his wound and the box, then sighs. He doesn't ask for it but she helps anyway.
(It makes his blood boil just a little bit when she tries to act so righteous. As if she wasn't the same monster he is. As if she wouldn't have killed the doctors if she had been in his place. As if she wasn't capable of killing now. As if she didn't want to kill. She can deny the truth all she wants but Fyodor knows they both are the same person.)
Fyodor knows she isn't much of a saint herself, because when he asks for something for the pain, she says there is nothing. He can make out the aluminum wrapper of the painkillers in her sleeves, their soft crinkle when she moves. No doubt she can hear them too, but she still meets his eyes blankly and tells him they are all out. Maybe she's still mad that he killed her. Maybe she thinks he deserves the pain. Maybe she is right.
Maybe the sadistic part of her is still alive, the part that was born in that lab and refused to die ever since.
It makes him wonder just where she draws the line between justice and brutality.
-twenty-four-
The Armed Detective Agency.
It is an organization of Gifted who use their special abilities to solve difficult cases and keep Yokohama safe. Fukuchi asks him to steer clear of them.
As a member of the Decay Of Angles, Fyodor listens. As the leader of Rats In the House Of Dead, he doesn't. Instead, he begins looking into the Agency, researching up their members.
The Armed Detective Agency. Fukuchi doesn't like them at all. They must be some sort of threat to his plans.
Fyodor smiles. He can start with that.
-twenty-five-
The jobs keep on increasing. Forget chess once a week, he begins seeing her only once a week. The jobs are longer now and harder. He also learns that he isn't the only member.
There is the beginnings of a plan in his head, but he hasn't gotten any chance to even lay down its foundations. Fukuchi is watching him too closely.
Which means, he will need help.
-twenty-six-
A high ranking government official has just gotten his hands on some extremely important information. Information that Fukuchi wants.
And Fyodor is stuck getting that information. It is like any other mission, only this time Fukuchi is accompanying him. Maybe he wants to see how trustworthy Fyodor is.
Fyodor doesn't know how, but Fukuchi manages to get his hands on the invitations to the party the official is throwing. It makes him wonder just how high up the chain of authority Fukuchi is.
The plan is simple; get into the party, sneak into the official's office and get the documents they need.
Fyodor has been tasked with sneaking into the office. He resists a smile.
It is the perfect time to make his move.
-twenty-seven-
Before the job, Fukuchi gives Fyodor a break. He says it's to take care of any unfinished business.
It clear the job is very important. And very risky. It could very well result in his own death. There is no going back from this one. Fyodor doesn't have any unfinished business, not really. So he spends the days in his room, surrounded by computer screens as he makes plans upon plans for Fukuchi's downfall.
It's all in place. The only problem is the time.
Fyodor sighs, reviewing everything he had been told about the mission.
After entering, Fyodor will have barely fifteen minutes to find the documents. That doesn't leave enough time to do what he needs to, for his own plan to succeed.
What he needs to do is keep Fukuchi distracted, so he is not able to get to the rendezvous point. That would give him the time to do what needs to be done.
But what could be a big enough distraction that it keeps Fukuchi away?
There is the sound of footsteps, and a few seconds later, the woman enters. Fyodor blinks, then lets his lips curl into a smile.
What else but the dead?
-twenty-eight-
The woman is surprised to see him. He can't blame her; the last time he saw her was almost a week ago. Usually he is gone before she wakes up and comes home very late at night. Sometimes, he doesn't come back at all.
She is preparing her breakfast when he clears his throat.
"I need your help."
She stops stirring the eggs. Pauses for a few seconds. Then resumes. Just when he thinks she isn't going to say anything, she speaks.
"What for?"
"There's a job. I-"
"No."
His eyes narrow. She looks over to meet his eyes.
"I'm not helping you with your job. I don't know what it is, and I don't want-"
The eggs are beginning to sizzle. He cuts her off.
"It's against the man who killed you."
She stops. He can almost hear the gears turning in her head. She only snaps out of her thoughts when she smells the egg burning.
He wishes he could see her expression, wonders if the blood in her eyes is dripping down her cheeks. When she asks what she needs to do, he smiles.
No saint, indeed.
-twenty-nine-
It is only later he remembers that he has killed her too; not once, not twice, but three times. It makes him wonder if he should be more wary of her, more cautious, more afraid.
He wonders if she would be convinced to plot against him, just as easily. He doesn't know why the thought makes him frown.
-thirty-
The woman doesn't want to know the details. She requests to know only her role in the events.
Which is perfectly fine with him. The less people that know of his plan, the better. She still seems a little suspicious, even after he tells her what she needs to do. It's like she can't believe what he is saying and expects him to fess up that he is joking and give her the real job.
But he isn't lying at all. All she needs to do is talk.
-thirty-one-
Her hand is warm. It's not something he should be focusing on right now, but he gets to touch other humans so rarely, it catches him off guard how warm they are.
(It's strange. He used to hate that warmth, used to hate human contact. Actually, he still does. But for some reason, right now, he doesn't mind very much. Not when she's the one touching him. Not when she was in that lab with him, when she understands how dangerous it is to allow other humans to touch you.)
She seems to be having similar thoughts because her other hand goes to touch his face. Her eyes widen in surprise and wonder.
"You are cold."
Her wrists are small, and even though she is tall, she is frail. Undernourished. Weak. They both are and he wonders how much will it take for her to break.
He tightens his hand on her wrist. She winces slightly, tries to pull away, but he doesn't allow it. Not until he can see just how far she can be pushed.
Her eyes narrow, her anger hiding away her fear well. (But he smells the fear, somehow he always does. He used to love seeing her afraid of him. Now it just feels empty and wrong.)
She tries yanking her hand away but his smile is stone cold.
"Let go." Her voice is quiet. The lessons on etiquette he had been giving her for the party are long forgotten, no more relevant.
"I refuse." He tilts his head to one side. "What are you going to do about it?"
Her free hand comes up again, this time resting on his neck. He has no doubt she can feel the pulse thrumming there, the blood flowing in his veins.
(He doesn't want to focus on the goosebumps that rise on his skin, the way his heart pounds faster at her touch. He hopes she doesn't notice it either.)
"I am going to remind you." She applies the smallest amount of pressure, pressing her fingers deeper into his skin. Her hand is no where as big to wrap around his throat, but she still manages to make breathing difficult.
His vision begins blurring.
"I'm going to remind you that only one of us can come back to life, and it's not you."
He laughs, because suddenly he can smell his own fear and even though he is cruel enough for the both of them, there is no denying the darkness that lies within her.
Her hands are warm, but when she looks at him like that, her touch burns.
-thirty-two-
The plan proceeds without a problem. Fyodor enters with Fukuchi and mingles with the other guests for about fifteen minutes before sneaking away. The locks to the office are a piece of cake; looking for the documents, not so much.
The drawers, the desk, the bookshelves, he even checks the floor boards. Ten minutes have already passed and he has five more minutes before it's time to rendezvous with Fukuchi.
It is only when he looks up he spots the compartment in the ceiling. The rest is easy. He gets them down and opens the brown envelope. There is information about a book; a book which can contort reality. It seems something out of a fairytale but Fyodor has met people who can come back to life.
Soon his fifteen minutes are up and he is making way back into the party. Instead of turning towards the back where he is supposed to meet Fukuchi, he turns towards the ballroom.
At this angle, he can make out Fukuchi. There is a woman right in front of him, wearing a red dress. She is saying something.
Fukuchi has turned as pale as a ghost. He is frozen in place, completely unlikely to come looking for Fyodor.
Fyodor smirks. Then he turns away and enters the office again.
He makes two more copies of the documents. One is obviously for himself. The other he puts in another envelope, seals it with the government official's seal and places it with the other post and letters that need to be sent.
He writes the address of the Detective Agency on it.
-thirty-three-
He has been gone for barely twenty five minutes. No one has come looking for him which he takes as a good sign. He makes way back to into the party, donning a confused face.
The woman is still standing next to Fukuchi, and Fyodor can't help buy notice how she stands out in all that red. He catches Fukuchi's eye and raises an eyebrow in question.
The older man is still pale but he seems glad. He excuses himself and hurries towards him. He mutters something Fyodor fails to catch, then makes way towards the exit.
Fyodor look over his shoulder, just as the woman looks over to him. Her eyes are burning and her lips are curled in a smile. There it is, the glimpse of her sadistic nature, the cruelty that she tries so hard to hide.
When she smiles like that, she looks just like him.
-thirty-four-
Fukuchi only half listens to the report Fyodor gives. Quickly making sure the goal was achieved, he lets him go. The older man is still pale and Fyodor feels the curiosity curl within him; just what had the woman done to him?
The woman is in her room, crouched in front of the full length mirror. She winces, pulling out another pin from her hair. Her door is open which he takes as in invitation to enter. She is still in her red dress and he takes the moment to marvel that it looks like she is wearing a gown of blood. Her reflection meets his eyes when he stops behind her.
"What did you do to him?"
Her eyes light up and her lips, blood red, are curling again. She smiles at him, just the way she smiled at Fukuchi, and suddenly it is too hot in the room.
"Just like you asked me to." She answers, her tone soft as if she were telling him a secret. "I talked."
Fyodor doesn't know what to to with the pleasant shudder that crawls up his spine.
-thirty-five-
Fukuchi calls for him after a few days. He gives Fyodor a new house, filled with all the best servants who would do exactly as ordered. It looks suspiciously like a promotion. And yet, Fyodor knows exactly what it is, just as he knows exactly who all those servants serve.
But he accepts because he doesn't have much of a choice.
-thirty-six-
The woman comes to see him just as he is leaving. Her eyes are carefully blank and Fyodor is surprised she is coming to see him at all. He would have expected her to be relieved that he was leaving but she looks...almost sad.
Just as he is going, she grabs his sleeve. She doesn't meet his eyes.
"Why not take me with you?" The question is a surprise and he isn't sure what to say.
He knows she wouldn't help him with his jobs; she would be nothing but a burden if he took her with him. He doesn't know why he is considering the possibility anyway.
She is still waiting for his reply.
"Would you be fine living in a house with cameras in every corner, watching your every move?"
Her silence says everything and he is envious that she has the liberty to refuse. He knows in a heartbeat, that if their positions had been reversed, he would certainly not have been this kind. He would have laughed at her predicament, would even have thought that she deserved it.
Clearly her thoughts are not like his and it is not the first time he wishes they were a little more alike in thought. Then he remembers her cold smiles and suddenly, his hands are on her lips, trying to see that woman in the woman in front of him.
(He doesn't want to notice how soft her lips are, how they part when he traces them, how much they look like an invitation. He doesn't want to notice that his heart is pounding again and this time it has nothing to do with fear. He doesn't want to notice any of it but he does anyway, because part of being a genius was noticing things and it is only now he has began to realize that it is not always a good thing.)
He lets his fingers linger for another second before letting go.
He sighs, turns around and leaves.
-thirty-seven-
His new house is huge, really it's more of a mansion than anything else. But Fyodor can feel the eyes on him, of both the servants and the various cameras.
The days mesh into one, and Fukuchi gives him jobs regardless of what time it is. He meets the other member; the jester Nikolai. It's a surprise to know that he is no more loyal to Fukuchi than Fyodor is, but Fyodor is a cautious man. Just in case, he creates his own ally; Sigma.
-thirty-eight-
The Agency gets involved, just as Fyodor had been hoping. However, he is disappointed to realize that he won't be able to manipulate them as he had been hoping to.
Surprisingly, the Agency has it's own genius; two in fact. The Gifted with the ability of Ultra Deduction is just fascinating, but it's the other one that Fyodor wishes to challenge.
Dazai Osamu makes the perfect chess opponent.
-thirty-nine-
The Moby Dick is a test, to see just how capable the Agency is. Fyodor is delighted to discover that they pass.
-forty-
Fyodor and Dazai are two sides of the same coin. There is only one difference between them; Fyodor has allies and Dazai has friends.
It is only a matter of time before one of them loses.
-forty-one-
Messing with Dazai Osamu is endlessly amusing; Fyodor almost forgets the reason he began doing all this.
Then Fukuchi reveals the rest of his plan and Fyodor remembers; it is all to defeat Fukuchi. By now, Fyodor knows about the space-time sword and the book, both of which are in Fukuchi's possession.
He knows the older man will be quite the opponent. One on one, Fyodor is no match. But acting behind the scenes, the young man does have a chance of winning.
-forty-two-
He resumes sending anonymous tips to the Agency. They are nothing grand; just small pieces of information arriving conveniently when the Agency needs the help.
He can imagine their confusion and knows for sure they would never suspect that it is him. The thought provides amusement like nothing else.
-forty-three-
He sees the woman after four months. He hadn't been actively seeking her out, but when he spots her in the street, he can't help himself.
She looks the same; only her hair is longer. He thinks that's the only change but then she looks at him, and her eyebrows furrow.
Her eyes are clouded and suddenly the air leaves his lungs. He doesn't know what is going on or what has happened, but he knows that her eyes should be as red as blood, not dull like roses. She shouldn't be looking at him with confusion and curiosity, as if he were just another man she had happened to meet in passing.
(He can suddenly smell his own fear and that surprises him; he hadn't even known that he was afraid of being forgotten by her. Maybe that was what he had wanted all along; to be someone worth remembering.)
He isn't even aware when he starts walking towards her, when he grabs her wrist, when he drags her into a nearby alley. All he knows is that she needs to remember that he was once a boy too; a cruel boy but a boy nonetheless. He needs someone else to remember the lab and all those doctors because there are days when his time there seems so unreal, he isn't sure if it even happened or was all just a figment of his imagination. He needs someone else to hold onto the memories because he doesn't trust himself to. He has already forgotten his name once, there is always a chance it can happen again.
His heart is pounding in his ears, and he can barely hear himself over his own loud thoughts. His lungs are burning and his vision is blurring, but he is panicking too much to realize he isn't breathing.
Then there are hands digging into his skin, fingers pressing with a roughness he would have never associated with her but always knew she was capable of.
But her eyes are clear now, so he finally remembers to breathe.
-forty-four-
She is warm, and his arms are wrapped around her so tightly he is hardly surprised he can feel her heart pounding.
It takes a moment for the darkness to clear, for his lungs to take in the air they had desperately wanted. Her hands are still cupping his face and her eyes are bright and their foreheads are touching.
But he asks just to make sure.
"Do you know me?" He is the one asking the question this time. She exhales and he feels the breath ghost over his face.
"You're Fyodor, the person who has killed me thrice."
Fyodor doesn't know what to do with the relief that washes over him.
-forty-five-
When he has calmed down, he asks her what happened.
There is foreign anger shimmering beneath his skin which he doesn't know what to do with. He doesn't know where it came from or who it is aimed at. He hates not knowing. Had Fukuchi killed her again? Had it been a burglar?
But then she shakes his head and he is confused at the color spreading across her cheeks.
"I fell." The color darkens and she begins fidgeting. "Down the stairs, I mean. I fell and hit my head pretty hard."
After his initial disbelief passes, he can't help but laugh, the sound ringing with amusement and relief instead of cruelty in a long, long time.
-forty-six-
Fyodor visits her only once more, to ask some questions and set the stage for his plan. His instructions are short and simple: The white-haired man would ask permission to search the house soon. What ever happens, you are not to allow him to do that.
Fyodor doesn't pay any mind to the servant who had been following him; the servant who would no doubt report to Fukuchi what he had seen.
Fyodor smiles at the thought. Things are going just as planned.
-forty-seven-
Fyodor had been distracted. That is the only reason Dazai catches him off guard, showing up in that café. But Fyodor doesn't have it in him to be annoyed; instead he holds back a laugh because playing against the former mafioso is just so much fun.
The prison they put him in is the most secure in the world. He spends his days reading and exchanging information with outside.
There is really nothing he can do right now except wait.
-forty-eight-
Dazai joins him soon and he gets to know more about what is happening on the surface.
The Agency has been framed; Fyodor has been expecting it. It's a successful technique to ensure they are as involved in this as possible.
-forty-nine-
The prison is just so boring.
Fyodor has already read all the books thrice. Even the imaginary chess, the number guessing game and other things he had tried to distract himself with are getting boring.
He begins counselling.
-fifty-
"My dream is to commit double suicide alongside a beautiful woman." Dazai clasps his hand together, grinning giddily at the thought.
"Double suicide, huh?" It is quite the goal; interesting and exciting too. It is the type of thing Fyodor would like to try and yet...
"I guess it's not much use with her." Before he realizes it, the words leave his mouth.
He has no time to cover up his mistake because Dazai snaps into focus, like a switch was flipped. The detective raises an eyebrow, catching the opportunity to wheedle information.
"Her?" His voice echoes in the silence. Fyodor can hear his heart pounding but he tries to play it off coolly.
"Someone I'm renting my house to."
Dazai's smile is sly and sinister all at once.
"Does my friend have a girlfriend or something?"
Fyodor scoffs because that is just ridiculous. (He doesn't what to think about that time he left, when he had wanted to kiss her. Or that time in that alley when he held her. All of it means nothing.)
"I hadn't realized we were telling jokes." He replies.
(At least right now. It means nothing, right now. But maybe, give him a few more months, and maybe, just maybe...)
"Maybe I could fall in love." He muses to himself, deep in thought.
He isn't aware that his companion hears.
-fifty-one-
It is time for the next step of his plan.
He begins with a simple question to his companion.
"How do you plan on proving the Agency's innocence?"
Dazai smiles.
"Curious?"
Fyodor returns his smile.
"Do you have evidence?"
The other male remains silent. Perhaps he doesn't want to tell Fyodor of his plans. Perhaps he isn't sure himself. He has left things in the hands of that detective prodigy; perhaps he doesn't know what the said prodigy plans on doing.
Fyodor's smile widens at the silence.
"Would you like me to help you?"
Dazai's eyes widen.
-fifty-two-
Somewhere in a hidden corner, there is a man listening on to their conversations. A familiar servant, who had been posted to keep an eye on Fyodor.
He sends a message back to his master: Fyodor claims to have evidence to help the Agency. Whether he is going to help or not is still in question.
-fifty-three-
"Why?" Dazai breaks the silence. His eyes are narrowed and suspicious, as if he still can't quite believe that Fyodor wants to help. If Fyodor didn't share his cautiousness, he might have been offended. Now, however, the detective's reaction only amuses Fyodor.
He shrugs in response to his question.
"We have the same goal, don't we? We both wish to bring Fukuchi down." His answer only confuses Dazai more, who leans forward, raising an eyebrow.
"What did Fukuchi do to you?" Fyodor wants to remember the rage he felt at being outsmarted by Fukuchi, at how the older man had made a fool out of him. But all he can see in front of him is the woman's body collapsed on that table, blood leaking all around her. All he can see is her eyes refusing to look away from his, even as her life drains. All he remembers is her lips forming around her last words: Fyodor. His name.
"Nothing all that special." He answers after a long silence. "He once killed my queen in chess."
Dazai looks baffled again, realizing that they were having two different conversations but not understanding how they connected. He says he needs time to think.
-fifty-four-
"So what is this evidence?" Dazai asks, letting his curiosity get the better of him. Fyodor smiles, leaning forward.
"At this moment, it doesn't exist. But should you accept my help, I should let you know that the stage has been set. All you need to do is accept."
"Do you have any conditions?" Fyodor's smile only widens.
"Only two." He counts them down.
"In a few days, we will be broken out of this prison. As soon as we are out, I will give you this evidence. In return, you will turn a blind eye to my escape."
Dazai frowns, but says nothing about it. "And the second?"
Fyodor chuckles, eyes shining in that all-knowing way of his. "This plan of mine will result in exactly one death. I want the Agency to pay for the funeral services as a token of respect for this victim."
Dazai looks like he wants to tear his hair out, because he cannot make sense of anything anymore. What kind of condition was that? The detective shakes his head, thinking about it.
Dazai would have preferred to have no deaths at all, but he knows that's naïve thinking. Some degree of sacrifice is always necessary to bring about change. And though the conditions don't make much sense, Dazai agrees because having friends means have a softer heart and Dazai would do anything for his friends.
-fifty-five-
Two days later, Nikolai breaks them out.
At the same time, Fukuchi hears of the evidence Fyodor has. He can think of only one place where Fyodor would hide things.
-fifty-six-
Fyodor takes Dazai to the control room. He begins typing. The large screen lights up before them.
There is Fukuchi, wearing red clothes, standing in front of another guy wearing red clothes.
In front of them is a woman with pitch black hair, and blood red eyes.
Fyodor presses a button and the camera in his living room begins recording. He watches with an amused smile as it goes live.
-fifty-seven-
In the press conference, Ranpo passes out the brown envelope to all major news reporters, containing all the evidence he-with the aid of their mysterious helper-had managed to gather over the months. But he knows this isn't enough. Not until they catch the real culprit.
He prays for a miracle, just a little more help.
His prayers are answered and the screen behind him comes to life. It shows the Fukuchi, the leader of the Hunting Dogs and another member with white and red hair, Juno.
-fifty-eight-
Fyodor wishes he could see Fukuchi's face at the instant the older man spots the woman. However, hearing how hoarse and shaky his voice is also amusing.
"You again." Fyodor smiles as Fukuchi takes a step back, no doubt remembering the time he had seen the woman at that party.
Dazai has his eyebrows raised in confusion, as if he can't quite understand what is going on. There is huge piece of the puzzle that he is missing, a very crucial piece.
"It's not-" Fukuchi seems to suddenly snap out of his stupor, because his sword is in his hands and the look in his eyes is crazed. "I killed you!"
The effect is immediate. The man next to Fukuchi turns towards his boss, startled. Dazai releases a sound of surprise, glancing at the man next to him. He stiffens at the look on his partner's face; Fyodor's cold smile is terrifying.
The woman in the footage scowls.
"You're crazy! I said it already: get the hell out of my house."
Fyodor chuckles; now that is a side he hasn't seen before. He realizes he still has quite a bit to discover of this miracle of a woman in front of him.
But Fukuchi is not done speaking.
"I killed you months ago." His voice is louder, clearer, more determined. Fukuchi is digging himself a hole and laying down in his own coffin.
"To hire Fyodor. I killed you because he refused!"
The coffin snaps shut with his corpse inside.
-fifty-nine-
The conference is in an uproar. There are too many people in front of Ranpo, asking too many questions at the same time.
And Ranpo doesn't know what to say. What just happened? Did Fukuchi just confess that Fyodor was working for him? Was he the mastermind of all this mess Why?
"You..." There is sudden silence as they hear Fukuchi began to speak again. "You're supposed to be dead."
The woman has a baseball bat in one hand and her phone in the other.
"I'm giving you a last warning. Leave before I call the police!"
But Fukuchi is beyond listening, beyond thinking. Then Fukuchi's sword is raising his hands and there is blood everywhere and the woman is screaming as she coughs up blood.
Even Ranpo yells in surprise when the leader of the Hunting Dogs kills an innocent, civilian woman in front of a hundred witnesses.
-sixty-
The mouse shatters to pieces beneath Fyodor's grip.
Startled, Dazai looks up at the sound, but Fyodor has his eyes focused on the scene on the screen. He had known this was going to happen; it was a part of his plan after all.
(Though a small part of him had been hoping that things wouldn't go this far, that Fukuchi would drop dead the instant he confessed. Fyodor suddenly wishes he was there, in that room, if only to watch the older man's skin crumble beneath his touch.)
Something in him burns at the mess of blood on the ground, and he wonders if the woman's lips are moving again, if she is whispering his name again as she dies.
(He wants to hear her say his name.)
That smile is frozen on his face, cold and sinister, as he watches Fukuchi tell Juno to keep his silence. Turning towards Dazai, he gestures towards the screen.
"Your evidence."
Dazai doesn't know what to say.
-sixty-one-
The remaining Hunting Dogs refuse to believe what they see. Their leader has just killed a civilian because she refused to do as he said.
He confessed openly in front of all of Yokohama that he had tried to kill her before. He confessed that Demon Fyodor-one of the worst criminals of their time-was working for him.
They don't want to believe it but when Juno returns, he is unusually quiet. It tells them everything.
-sixty-two-
Fyodor watches from a distance as Fukuchi and the Agency president cross swords. They reek of bad blood and old wounds, and something entirely bittersweet. There is a heaviness in the air, as if the world itself were holding its breath. The tension snaps when the Hunting Dog with red hair dives her katana into her former leader.
Fyodor doesn't feel pity for the way Fukuchi was going; disrespected and disgraced. The older man deserves every bit of Fyodor's wrath and rage.
-sixty-three-
The woman had said two days. The last time he'd seen her, she had told him it would take two days for her to come back. On the second day, he gets into the morgue. She has been placed in a separate room, presumably out of respect for her sacrifice. As she had predicted, all her wounds had healed.
He takes a minute to marvel at how pale she is, at how dead she looks. He knows she will come back; she has every time before, why would this time be any different? And yet his heart continues to pound. The clocks ticks loudly in the silence, every second feeling an eternity long.
Then, there is a sharp inhale.
-sixty-four-
Her breathing is the first sign. Fyodor has never seen her come back to life. He hadn't known what he was expecting, but it looks quite normal. Gradually, her breathing grows heavier, trying to get all that oxygen in her body.
Her skin is the second sign. It still looks unusually pale, but he can see the color returning to her cheeks. Slowly, her breathing calms.
Lastly, her eyes snap open. He walks closer, stopping beside her as she sits up. Her eyes are clouded with confusion as they dart around, disoriented and panicked. Then they land on him and she freezes.
Just like he had expected, her eyes are clouded with confusion. When he sits down beside her, she doesn't shy away at all. He likes that she isn't afraid anymore.
-sixty-five-
"Do you know who I am?"
Their question. It has become their own little ritual.
She tilts her head to the side, before extending her hands toward him.
"I don't." She answers. "But I feel like I should."
Her hands cup his face, her eyes closing as the memories all come back. Her hands are cold; cold like his.
-sixty-six-
It's just the two of them, and she is just so close but it's not enough. His hands curl around her jaw, gently caressing the soft skin. He pulls her closer, until he can make out the the white flecks in the red, the steel in the blood.
Closer until he can feel her breathing in sync with him.
Closer until their foreheads are touching.
"Fyodor." She murmurs his name, as if she's reminding herself, reminding him.
When they kiss, the world stops.
-sixty-seven-
As they are leaving, she asks how he managed to sneak in. He laughs, because the joke is just too funny not to share. When he tells her, the grin that splits her face looks just like his.
He leaves behind three things on the bed; a piece of paper, a fake business card detailing Funeral Services he had made months ago and a photograph.
-sixty-eight-
He can imagine the Agency's outrage when they see the photograph, showing the very much alive woman, holding a hesitant peace sign and Fyodor next to her not bothering to hide his own grin. The Agency had paid for the funeral of a person who was no longer dead and the fake business card read, 'No refunds.'
Just to add fuel to the fire, the note Fyodor left behind said, "Thank you for the money."
-sixty-nine-
Dazai has yet to stop laughing, along with Yosano who is also sniggering. Kunikida is seething in anger, while Kenji tries to calm him down with tales of righteousness and how they had just helped someone in need. Junichiro and Atsushi look confused as if things have happened too fast. Fukuzawa pinches the bridge of his nose, looking down at the note once again.
Kunikida clenches his fists. "All our funds-!"
The Agency President sighs, still in disbelief that the highly praised and quite expensive funeral services he had requested happened to be another one of Fyodor's schemes. And now the younger man was gone too, with the woman and the money.
The Agency has been duped.
-seventy-
After getting his laughter under control, Dazai looks at the picture again. He glances at the woman, thoughts running haphazardly, trying to figure out the missing pieces.
(She is standing alarmingly close to Fyodor. Does she not know how dangerous his touch is? Or does she simply not care? Or...maybe... she has no reason to be afraid.)
What kind of drug had Fyodor used to deceive them all? A drug that dulled brain and heart functions? A drug that resurrected the dead? (An Ability?)
"I killed you months ago! You're supposed to be dead."
"Double suicide, huh? I guess it's not much use with her."
("Nothing all that special. He once killed my queen in chess.")
("Maybe I could fall in love.")
Dazai presses a hand to his mouth to hide his grin.
Maybe it was no drug at all.
His eyes linger on the woman, eyes wide and glittering in a hysterical way.
Maybe it was the real deal.
His grin widens, a small chuckle escaping him.
"An Ability which brings its user back from the dead." He mutters under his breath, the photograph wrinkling beneath his tight grip.
(But in a twisted way, it makes sense. An unkillable woman for a man whose very touch is poison. Dazai is almost envious; he would have liked to meet this woman at least once and see such a terrifying Ability in action.)
"Just what monster have you gotten your hands upon, Fyodor?"
It is an interesting thought so he wonders.
A/N 1: Chat, sorry for this but I couldn't settle on a name for the OC. So feel free to imagine whatever name you prefer.
A/N 2: Thank you so much for reading! I'd love to hear what you think!