A/N: I know I said that the PacificWatch update would be up next, but then I decided to at least start on that 'Hanzo stays with the Shimada clan' oneshot I asked AVoresmith about and, well, it was pretty much done in no time. In fact, the editing probably took longer than the writing did.
Speaking of, this chapter was largely inspired by Chapter 14 of Avoresmith's Truce on AO3, as was the title, so if you haven't already, check out their work.
It's day at the Shimada castle, with light streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the last remnants of a decaying empire, so bright and glaring it spears through Hanzo's skull, cold in his brain like sharpened steel.
No. Actually, it's night? The starlight dances on his tongue, so sweet it brings tears to his eyes. The wetness overflows, mixing with the steady drip of his soaked fringe, burning his cheeks like acid.
Hanzo wasn't sure of the time or the day or the year, hasn't been sure for longer than he cared to remember which, admittedly, wasn't very long at all. Moments come and moments go where he needed to muster a certain amount of focus to even recall his name.
He's sitting on the floor of his office with no memory of how he got there, which was dangerous and stupid when so many want him dead, but he supposes that meant the Russian drug he'd pilfered from the Clan's narcotics supplies was doing its job. He wanted to forget – his name, his responsibilities, the sins of his past. Let the drug burn it all to oblivion.
Let it break him into dust.
A tremor, much like the others before it, tore viciously through his body – his blood was slowly freezing, turning solid. Ice crystals stabbed through his veins, their points poking through his flesh – muscles spasmed and he jerked, accidentally slamming the back of his head against the solid concrete wall supporting him.
A cool metal palm pressed against his throbbing, pulsing skull, directly above the nape of his exposed neck, where the wet strands of his black hair had been swept over his shoulders, prevented him from repeating the act by providing a gentle yet insistent pressure. Despite Hanzo's feeble attempts to dislodge it, the steady weight didn't budge, and Hanzo quickly gave up trying to fight it.
Instead, he rocked, suddenly burning. The air in his lungs had turned to fire. He choked on a scream, aware of every cell in his body dying, of his limbs curling, collapsing, becoming ash.
A tortured moan slipped past his blue lips. Shortly after, the palm pressed against his hair disappeared, only to be replaced by a heavy fabric thrown over his torso and wrapped gingerly around his shoulders. Confused, Hanzo shifted his molten limbs, raising the fabric over his arms as though it were a foreign, alien thing he'd never seen or touched before.
Grudgingly, his mind supplied the word: Blanket.
Had he even had one of those in his office? In the end, discerning the blanket's origin, or even entertaining the idea that it hadn't always been draped around him, that someone must have retrieved and moved it to its current location, required a degree of thought and perception that stretched leagues beyond his current ability.
Thus, Hanzo did not question why he was sitting on the tiled floor of his office, his back propped up against the wall, when his last coherent memory was of drawing a bath for himself. He did not recall undressing, but he had sunk beneath the lukewarm water, regardless. Then a wave of drowsiness had swept over him as he'd waited for the high to kick in, and he'd slipped beneath its still surface, too tired to even raise his head…
The lack of permanence required to create connections between the past and the present prevented him from coming to the most obvious conclusion, and so it wasn't until the presence crouched beside him made itself known with a low, mechanical hum that Hanzo even considered the possibility that he wasn't alone.
The whole of their slender, compact form was covered with glossy armored plates, barring the neck, joints, and sides, which were instead shielded by a thinner mesh, ostensibly to enable the wearer more flexibility in their movements.
An assassin, then.
"Do it." Hanzo tried to say. "Kill me." He's not sure if he formed the words correctly, or if what he'd said even made sense, but the assassin's neon green visor pulsed, creating exploding spots in his vision. The vents over their shoulders released clouds of steam into the air with an audible hiss.
The assassin shifted minutely, before swiveling their head to regard him, but Hanzo could not begin to fathom what expression might lie beneath their mask. "Is that what you want?" The words come out flat, deep, and unexpectedly robotic, but the question itself was sincere, more curious than anything.
Not for the first time, Hanzo resisted the urge to rest his head in his hands, close his eyes, and ignore the world. Should he sleep, he did not trust that the assassin would stay his hand long enough for him to wake once more. After a time, he gave voice to a whisper hoarse with longing and desperation, "Yes."
Tilting his head to the side, the assassin seemed to consider it. "How do I know you will not scream? Draw your servants here so that they may kill me after I slay you?"
Shaking his head, a gesture that caused the room to spin dangerously, Hanzo rasped, "I… am alone." Always. "My servants know better than to accompany me on this day." And even if they did hear his screams, he thought bitterly, there were those among the Clan who would simply ignore them. He's neglected the business for so long, his absence would make little more difference than a raindrop to the sea.
Once Hanzo mentioned the anniversary of his brother's death, the assassin visibly relaxed, stretching out his limbs to get comfortable as he settled down into a sitting position. He nodded occasionally, hummed at the appropriate times to assure the yakuza that he was listening, but Hanzo couldn't help but feel that the assassin was merely indulging him, as though he'd heard this tale many times before.
Maybe he had.
When the anecdote had finished, having reached its inevitable rambling conclusion, a long silence rushed to fill the void left behind. The assassin inhaled deeply, slowly, before finally commenting, "You should take better care of yourself." Beneath the leveling effect of their filter, the ninja sounded serious, even sad. Hanzo found himself thinking there was something wrong with that, but couldn't fathom why. In the end, he chalked up the vague sense of familiarity and concern to drugged paranoia.
Another ferocious tremor rushed through him, muscles twitching, writhing, and spasming out of his control, but the solid weight braced against his head and a tight pressure on his shoulder kept him from losing himself to it completely.
Eventually, the intensity of the high began to fade, and when it did, Hanzo noticed that he was sitting in a puddle. It appeared that though he was fully clothed in slim-fitting pants and a navy button-up shirt, every inch of him was absolutely drenched.
drip drip drip
After observing some lingering shakes passing through his chilled limbs, the assassin collapsed gracelessly against him, his pale, scuffed armor searing as a furnace. He was heavier than Hanzo had anticipated, the same armor meant for speed and flexibility on the battlefield rendering him unwieldy and awkward when pressed against his side, but soon the convulsions diminished to the occasional sporadic twitch, leaving Hanzo feeling utterly baffled.
Such kindness was wasted on a man who would soon be dead.
They stayed like that for some time, neither willing to break the tenuous peace. When Hanzo found himself nearly nodding off, he dared to break the silence with a question, both out of a mix of true curiosity and an ardent desire for distraction, "Why are you dressed like that?"
Hearing that, the assassin noticeably stiffened, before briefly glancing down to study his own form. "It's not a costume," he said quickly, a touch defensive, though Hanzo didn't recall ever suggesting that it was. "It's a full body prosthetic. I… actually came here to visit my brother."
For a moment, Hanzo wondered if he had made a mistake in assuming this man had been sent to kill him. "Is that so? What is his name?" Dry, cracked lips twitched, more pre-mortem rictus than smile. "Perhaps I know him."
As neglectful as he undeniably was to the machinations of the criminal empire, the current kumicho still made it a point to know the names and families of every man and woman involved in the Clan. While there was very little he could do or even wanted to do to help anyone these days, when it came to finding a relative within the organization, he could at least be of some assistance.
Instead of answering immediately, the assassin climbed heavily to his feet, unfolding and straightening until he stood at his tallest, and faced the exit. Though unspoken, his intention to leave was clear, yet the armored ninja hesitated, glancing back over his shoulder to once again find the formerly proud and strong yakuza huddled piteously in the corner, "No... I do not think that you do."