48 Days

Disclaimer: Nope, characters still aren’t mine.

Warnings: Lemme see . . . violence, mention of m/m sex, really bad language (Yohji’s got a potty mouth, in my head anyway). Ah, spoilers, general knowledge of the series is assumed.

And a huge thanks to everybody that reviewed my other story!

Chapter 1: Madness and Missions


December 9th
It was, Yohji thought ponderously, one of *those* days. He stared out the window of the Koneko no Sumi ii and waited for the rain to fall as it had been threatening to do all day long. It was the sort of day where time seemed to stand still. Slate-gray clouds loomed overhead, casting a sense of unreality over the world. The day had come without a dawn and there’d been no morning or noon. The sun would slide away at sunset without anyone the wiser. If it was up there at all, you couldn’t prove it by him. He hated days like this. It always seemed as though the world was too tired to wake up completely. Yohji swore the clock stopped every time he glanced away. Which meant if he didn’t check it every five minutes he’d *never* get out of here. If he *did* check it every five minutes Aya’d take his head off for being irritating.

It was just a horrible kind of day. He’d known it was going to be when he’d opened his eyes to the too-dim daylight leaking around his curtains. The news had been promising rain with a chance of sleet. The fact that it hadn’t begun yet was an unhelpful detail. The clouds just *hung* there, quiet and oppressive and depressing. Days like these made the blond miserable. And a miserable Yohji usually meant waspish comments and behavior that, more often than not, he ended up apologizing for later.

So, in the best interests of the world at large, when he’d woken up this morning to the ambiguous dawn he’d resolved to keep himself distracted. Unfortunately for a certain redhead Yohji’d figured annoying the hell out of his lover would be sufficiently amusing. He’d pestered the man mercilessly all day, only backing off for short spans when it was obvious the younger man was close to snapping. Probably the only thing that had saved him from a busted lip was the complete lack of witnesses. They’d been open all day and hadn’t had a single customer. Even the schoolgirls hadn’t appeared.

Yohji stifled a yawn, knowing that if he let his body start slowing down he’d end up lethargic for the rest of the day and that wouldn’t do at all. They were expecting a mission soon; they were overdue for one. But, apparently, business was as slow in the underworld as it was in the shop. Maybe criminals hibernated in the winter? Perhaps they were all too busy enjoying comforts the year’s work had yielded. Sitting in a snug winter retreat, lighting hundred dollar cigars and slipping century old brandy, warming their feet by fires in robes of velvet.

He doubted very seriously that any of them were languishing in total boredom in deserted flower shops. On the same score, he didn’t think any of the other “good-guys” were doing so either. Somewhere, someone in Kritiker was having a good laugh over the four florist-assassins. He rather suspected Weiss was something of an inside joke with Kritiker; one of those stories told at office parties. He could see it now- a handful of men and women in a dimly lit room with tinsel strung in tiny patches, struggling desperately to bring some “holiday cheer” to the engagement with spiked eggnog as an accomplice. “So, did you hear what happened to Weiss the other day? Apparently, our fearless assassins were held hostage by a hundred-year-old woman who beat them with a bouquet of roses because her order wasn’t ready soon enough.”

And, Yohji thought ruefully, with a private grimace, that had actually happened once. The mean old hag had made Omi cry, Ken run for cover, and put him to shame with her sharp tongue. Even Aya’d been cowed and at a loss with what to do to appease the ancient specimen of female. They’d *all* gotten slapped upside the head with a bouquet of roses she’d snapped up from a display. Aya’d gotten whacked three or four times as he worked furiously to complete her arrangement. She’d dropped the destroyed bouquet on the worktable contemptuously, leaving battered petals strewn all across the shop. No one had asked her to pay for the ruined flowers- they hadn’t dared.

Yohji checked the clock again. Yep. Time had stopped while he was reminiscing. Still over an hour until Aya would allow the shop to be closed down. He could probably convince his lover to let *him* go now, but not without the redhead getting disgusted with his work ethic. That would mean he’d be ignored for the remainder of the day and probably carry over into the stubborn young man not being “in the mood” tonight. Not, as far as Yohji could tell, Aya was *ever* “in the mood”, so much as he just wanted to fuck every now and then. Yohji considered the younger man his lover, but more because they lived and worked together and had a fairly steady sex life with each other than any emotional involvement. Not that he’d have minded that . . . but the day was already depressing enough without being denied the comforts of the man’s amazingly welcoming body. Which, he knew from experience, would be the only thing to come of his broaching the topic of their *unique* arrangement.

His Aya-clock indicated that the redhead had had enough time to cool down since the last time he’d annoyed him into distraction. So it was time to go pester his lover again and, with a great deal of luck, the smaller man would be a bit more receptive to his advances. Yes, the wise thing to do would be to leave Aya alone before he pissed the man off, but Aya was just too much fun to tease. He’d done it before they’d started their little fuck-buddy tryst a few months ago and he didn’t plan on stopping now. If anything, sleeping with the redhead had just opened up a new and wholly more interesting avenue for verbal torment. He absolutely *loved* it when he managed to shock a blush out of his younger partner. It was both harder and easier to accomplish than he’d thought. He hadn’t quite gotten it figured out. Sometimes he could say something entirely innocent and fire would sweep over those pale cheeks. Sometimes innuendo worked, at least as often as it didn’t. He *had* learned that anything *too* direct outside the bedroom seriously pissed Aya off and *fast*. Actually, he thought, with a tiny pang of sorrow, almost everything about him made Aya mad. The redhead was almost always angry with him over one thing or another and had no problem telling Yohji about it in scathing detail. He hated the way he dressed, the way he flirted with women, his cigarettes, his drinking, his clubbing, his jokes, his room, his bed, hell Aya even hated his *car*.

Or said he did. And why would he say it if he didn’t? That was the bit about Aya he couldn’t figure out; well the bit that really bothered him, anyway. The man said the meanest things- especially around the other people. But, if they were alone, and Yohji hadn’t done anything particularly stupid, they got along just fine. And Aya could be so surprisingly *sweet* when he didn’t think anyone would notice. He’d randomly do things that left the blond shocked from the unexpected affection or the unanticipated insight. Like buying his favorite shampoo right before he ran out. Or making sure there was coffee made on mornings when Yohji had the first shift. Little things really, but undeniable evidence that Aya paid far more attention to his lover’s habits than he’d ever admit. Things that said he cared. Or, at least, that’s what Yohji wanted them to mean.

And the sex was *spectacular*. Nine times out of ten it was rough and tumble, bordering on brutal some nights. They’d fall on each other like creatures in heat, all forceful clashes, bruising holds, and teeth and nails and furious fucking- like they were racing against time to finish. Gods, it was *hot*. Sweaty limbs and panting breaths and heated urging . . . Yohji loved it.

Then there was that one time in ten and it was . . . different. Yohji hesitated to classify it too closely. Anything could change sex between them from demanding to giving. Sex then was gentler, softer, tinged with something like desperation some nights. Those were the times when Yohji wondered afterwards what the hell they were doing. What Aya was doing with *him* of all possible people. Wondered what it was Aya got out of their passionate little affair. If he’d just wanted sex he’d have no more problem getting it than Yohji ever did. Was it the convenience of not having to leave the house? Was it just easier because he already knew Yohji and trusted him just a little? He wanted to know. He wanted to know *why*, but he never asked and Aya wasn’t going to tell him. So, he’d lie there and watch the redhead dress and leave with a heavy feeling in his stomach.

And he had no doubt that if the redhead ever knew how much Yohji felt for him he’d end it. Aya’d been perfectly clear that he was there to achieve orgasm and nothing else. If he’d noticed Yohji’s lack of dates since they’d begun their “relationship” he’d ignored any implications that might carry.

Yohji pushed these thoughts out of his head for the time being, knowing that they would inevitably lead to the depression he was actively trying to avoid. Instead, he put on a wicked smile and crept over to where Aya was catching up on the accounts for the month. If luck was with him the redhead wouldn’t notice . . .


* * *


Yohji rubbed the sore spot on his ribs where his “lover” had elbowed him. Aya sure as hell *had* noticed his attempt to sneak up on him. And he’d paid for the attempt. Right in the middle of what had promised to be a heated argument over whether or not Yohji was “allowed” to touch the man, Manx had shown up with the god-cursed mission they’d been expecting. And *then* the sky had opened up and released the promised rain.

He knew he should’ve stayed in bed today.

Manx had hung around till they’d closed the shop and Omi’d arrived from school. He swore she’d done it just to torment him. Why else would she show up so damn early and *not* hand them an emergency mission?

Ken had come in covered in mud and rainwater, almost immediately after Omi, his elated smile fading at the sight of the woman in red. Now they all sat in the mission room, Ken muttering complaints about wanting a shower and dry clothes.

“If you don’t like being covered in mud don’t play in the rain, idiot!” Yohji finally snapped, having failed in his battle against irritation and depression.

“Fuck you. What crawled up *your* ass?”

Yohji was opening his mouth when Manx broke in. “That will be enough, boys. Let’s get to work.” She deftly ignored their twin glares and put the video in and pressed play.

It was the standard set-up, with the computer-generated Persia recounting the sins of the targets and telling them to go do murder. Yohji wondered why the melodrama was continued. It had honestly started to get on his nerves a long while back and in his current mood it took a good deal of self-restraint not to tell the ghost of their old boss to shove his romanticizing bullshit up his ass.

But the mission was plenty simple. Kill the six targets, blow up the building, and, lucky them, all six were going to be *in* the building tonight. How convenient. Yohji listened half-heartedly to the names and crimes, just memorizing faces. He’d discovered early on that it was information he didn’t really need to kill the bastards he just needed to know what they looked like. They all accepted, of course. Tomorrow there’d be six less *experienced* drug smugglers in the world and they’d have earned what amounted to easy money for them.

After Manx left they had to plan. Because there was always a plan, even for a single target alone in an empty warehouse, there had to be a plan. Since the plan was for tonight, they had to do it in something of a hurry.

“Siberian and I can set the explosives while Abyssinian and Balinese take out the targets,” Omi shrugged, bright blue eyes scanning the schematics.

“I can do it alone. Balinese can help you,” the redhead told them evenly.

“There’s *six* *targets*,” Yohji rolled his eyes. “Plus guards and we have to be done by the time the explosives go off.”

“I don’t need *your* help,” Aya hissed, violet eyes narrowed.

“Abyssinian,” Omi said reprovingly, “it makes more sense to send both of you. This has to be quick. The possibility that their will be shots fired and *heard* means that if we don’t want to take out police- and we do *not*- we have to blow the building before they arrive. I purpose we set nine different bombs and knock out the foundations. We’ll set the timers to off together, twenty minutes after we commence the mission.” He pointed at the blueprints. “If Siberian and I begin here and set that timer for twenty minutes and activate it, we can be here-” his finger traced along the hallways, “-in three and set that one for seventeen minutes and so on.” Blue eyes glittered at Aya. “You and Balinese shouldn’t need more than that to take out the targets and escape.”

Sometimes Yohji loved that kid. He’d gone right from arguing with Aya to telling him how it was going to be run. Yohji would’ve smiled, but if Aya saw him he’d dig his heels in on principle and the fight would continue. So he kept his amusement to himself.

After a moment, Aya nodded stiffly. “Fine. When?”

“Their meeting is set to begin at ten, so . . . quarter till eleven.”

Nods all around. Just another day in the world of Weiss.


* * *


Yohji released the corpse of the last roving bodyguards. Now all that remained in the way of him and a hot shower were the six targets and the dozen or so bodyguards in the room with them. And he couldn’t possibly have wanted the mission to be over with more. Sitting out in the rain before the mission commenced had been miserable and made worse by Aya’s silent reproach. Seemed the man was still miffed about not getting his way.

Stubborn bastard. Speaking of which . . . He turned, eyes sweeping the hall for his partner and cursed silently as he found his only company were the three bodies of the guards they’d found on this floor.

He hit the transmitter on his comm unit. “Where the hell are you, Abyssinian?” he hissed, furious that the redhead would deviate from the plan this late in the game. They’d had it easy so far, taking out the guards in twos and threes- quickly and quietly enough that no one had managed to alert the targets. And goddammit, if Aya made them scatter before he was in position, he was going to *kill* the idiot, terrific fuck or not.

He cursed again when, after fifteen seconds, his “partner” hadn’t replied. And wasn’t going to, obviously, so Yohji didn’t waste the breath on repeating his question. He scooped up the nearest handgun, a revolver, and jogged towards the stairwell, checking to be certain he had bullets. Six shots and his wire.

He heard the echoes of running feet and shouted orders the moment he opened the door. Yohji seethed as glanced over the rail in time to shoot the only two men who’d run *down* the stairs. He thought one was a target, which made the other a probable bodyguard, but he couldn’t tell in the moment he killed them both and ducked back against the wall. And was in no way surprised by the shots fired from above. He slid along the wall; fervently hoping none of the bullets ricocheted into him. The moment the shots ceased he was giving chase, staying as close to the wall as it was possible to do. He *hated* running *up* stairs. What the fuck did they think they were gonna do once they got up there? Fly? Jump? The building was only eight stories, but that was too far to survive a fall unless you were incredibly lucky.

Hell, he supposed, it was possible one of them had a helicopter- not plausible, granted, but *possible*. And Weiss couldn’t afford a risk like that. Couldn’t leave enemies at their backs.

He could hear them- three of them. He leaned over the railing quickly and squeezed off another shot, ducked back, smiling viciously at the shriek of pain from above. He checked his watch as he continued up at a quiet run- thank god for cork-bottomed boots. Six minutes, his watch told him. Damn that was cutting it fine. He hoped that redheaded bastard was fucking pleased with himself.

The wounded guard was waiting for him on the stairs where the other two had left him. Yohji ducked back as the idiot started firing, having to hide on the landing *beneath* the man. He did *not* need this shit! He took some deep breaths, flinching as a bouncing bullet clipped the pavement beside him, sending razor-sharp fragments of rock into his hand and thigh. Just beautiful. He heard the slide lock back and hauled ass up those stairs- if trigger-happy got that gun reloaded before he killed him he was completely fucked.

Just as the goon was sending the slide forward, Yohji shot him in the side of the head.

Snarling, Yohji hurried past the twitching, dying man, careful of the slick blood and bits of brain tissue, and up the final flight of stairs and faced the metal door leading onto the roof. He sat to the left of the door, his back to the cold concrete of the wall, and shoved the thing open. He curled up, waiting while as the remaining guard proceeded to empty his clip into the stairwell. And why the hell had he robbed the only guard that was carrying a revolver?! He laid down, hugging the wall, and peeked around the very bottom of the doorframe. He saw the magazine fall as it was ejected- and fired, his bullet hitting the final guard just to the right of the hollow of his throat, taking half his neck off. Couldn’t see the target and couldn’t hear anything at all over the ringing in his ears, courtesy of the recently departed asshole that had been shooting at him.

Four minutes. Shit. *Shit*.

He’d just run out of time for caution.

He drew his legs under him, crouching, and took a deep breath- and threw himself through the doorway, rolling, and came to his feet aiming. The target was pressed to the wall about ten feet to the right of the door. Yohji smiled victoriously, as the wide-eyed man began to raise his gun, and pulled the trigger- Only to have the pin thunk heavily on a dud.

/*Fuck*,/ he thought with feeling as he dropped the useless gun and went for the wire.

The target fired and Yohji caught his breath as the bullet tore through his side, casting out the wire- the pain screwing his aim enough to allow the man time for a second shot before Yohji yanked the wire tight, slashing his throat.

“Balinese, Abyssinian, three minutes- where are you guys?” Omi demanded.

Yohji was amazed he heard it at all over his brand new migraine and ringing ears.

The last target was choking on his own blood. Yohji, hand pressed over the entry wound, limped quickly for the stairs. Three minutes, eight flights of stairs, then the hall to the side exit . . . could he make it? He had to. He had to kick Aya’s ass for tonight’s spectacular display of stupidity.

He hit his comm, stumbling down the stairs. “I’m hit,” he told them flatly. “On my way out now.”

“Bad?” Omi queried.

“Gut shot,” was his clipped answer.

“Where are you? I’ll come get you,” Aya’s deep voice *finally* sounded over the radio.

And damned if Yohji didn’t breathe a little easier knowing the son of a bitch was okay. “I’ll be fine,” he snapped in reply. “I think I’ve had enough of *your* help for tonight.”

“Hurry.” Omi’s voice was tight, controlled worry and urgency.

Yohji hurried and ignored the sun-bright pain in his stomach and the warm wash of his own blood over his hand. He focused *down* and ran as fast as his faltering legs would take him. Between the headlong downward flight and the blood loss he was so dizzy he was nearly sick. Absurdly, he wondered if Aya’d miss him if he didn’t make it. If he’d had the breath for it he might’ve laughed. Jesus- how much time was left? Just keep going. Couldn’t feel the railing under his hand anymore. Tripped. Landed hard, white-hot pain blinding him. Pushed back up. Gotta keep running. Shit, he was losing blood faster than he’d thought.

“Yohji-kun, you’ve got forty-five seconds- *where* *are* *you*?!” Omi demanded, voice harsh, worry betrayed by his lack of caution over his name.

The blond didn’t answer, panting for breath. What floor was he on? He couldn’t make it- knew he couldn’t make it with sudden, cold certainty. The explosives were positioned to bring the building down- had to get *out*. He fell through the next door he was, marked with a big two. Second floor- had to find a window. Pushed open another door- office- *window*!- looking out at an alley- Black spots dancing wildly on the edges of his vision.

“Yohji-kun! Answer me!” Omi cried shrilly.

The blond fumbled with the window lock- /Open you piece of shit, *please*!/

It gave, sliding up, his blood leaving thick smears on the glass-

“Yohji-!” Aya’s voice-

-the world rocked with fire and thunder as the explosives detonated.


* * *


“Yohji! *Yohji*!” Aya screamed, launching himself towards the building the second before the explosion, knowing they were out of time and the older assassin hadn’t made it out. Ken grabbed his arm, as the deafening explosion tore the night apart and Aya howled like a wounded animal.

Then Omi was grabbing fistfuls of leather and buckles trying to help Ken keep the redhead from throwing himself into the flames of the burning building. He was screaming Yohji’s name like a man gone mad, fighting their hold so he could get to Yohji. His struggles had no thought behind them, no training, no focus; it was the wild flailing of a man who’d just lost someone-

“Let me go!” he shrieked at them. “Goddamn you-! He’s still in there! We have to find him! He’s hurt! We have to save him! *Damn* it-! YOHJI!” His need to get to his lover blinded him to all else. He didn’t notice the scratches he opened on Omi’s arms or the bruises he left on Ken’s legs. He barely registered the shock of impact as his struggles took them to the ground, the younger men fighting desperately to hold him. He didn’t realize that it was tears clouding his vision and not just the thick, choking, black smoke that Yohji’d vanished beneath.

He was blind to everything but the horrifying images of his lover being consumed by the flames, deaf to everything but the screaming denials in his head.

And the building collapsed, with a roar like that of a dying thing in a wave of dirt and rubble and flame-

And Aya lost any semblance of sanity as he watched it fall, just absolutely *lost* it. Screaming his throat raw, scraping his hands bloody on the cement, choking on sobs and loss, thrashing wildly to free himself. His heart thudded painfully in his chest and he couldn’t breathe- only scream- And gods, gods, Yohji *had* to have gotten out! He must have- because if he hadn’t- if he hadn’t . . . Oh *no*, nonononono!

Omi was yelling in his ear, his own tears clogging his throat. And Aya didn’t register a word of it until he heard him promise, “- come back for him! But we have to go *now*! We can’t help him if we’re in jail! Aya-kun!”

And Aya seized that hope. It was as if having someone else say that Yohji had gotten out, that he was alive, somehow made it true. He was alive, Aya knew it-

The fast-approaching wail of sirens warned him that if he was going to escape to save Yohji later they had to go now. They hadn’t dared park a car on the empty street and the car Yohji had stolen for the mission was three blocks down and one over. He let the younger two men pull him to his feet, following their direction without protest, all will seemingly drained out of him. Yohji couldn\'t be dead, couldn\'t have been still inside. He just couldn\'t have. Shock, he thought as the numbness rolled in, stealing the pain away for awhile. He knew the pain was there, hiding just under the protective layer of disassociation his mind was currently being cushioned with, knew it wouldn’t be long before it would be back. But for now, he wondered blankly at the lack of rain.

Omi and Ken hurried them along the sidewalks and down alleys, chased into the darkness by the flashing lights of police and fire trucks and the flickering of flames.

* * *


At first all Yohji knew was pain and heat and dizzying confusion. In the back of his brain a shrill voice was screaming at him to get up, to run. The voice any survivor learns to recognize and obey. He blinked rapidly, trying to clear his, trying to force his brain into some sort of order. For one dizzying second he could understand where he was, if he was dreaming, if he was even *alive*. He couldn’t think over the whirl of confusion and *pain*. Everything was too loud- the roaring of the flames, the groaning of the building, the rush of blood in his ears.

/The fucking *mission*,/ he thought, dazedly.

He pushed himself into a hunched sitting position against the wall he thought he might’ve been thrown into from the force of the explosion. It certainly *felt* like he’d been thrown through a wall or nine. The burning building was too close, the incredible heat searing his skin, scorching his lungs, sending his hair floating in little wisps, and exciting the base animal brain that equated fire with danger.

The alley was choked with smoke that made breathing a hazardous, painful process and made it impossible for his burning, watering eyes to see anything but the dancing red and orange and green of the fire. He was dizzy and nauseous from blood loss and heat and probably a concussion. He wanted nothing more than to surrender to the abyss of cool darkness creeping ever closer to him.

His left ear hurt, a lot, like it was on fire- visions of himself engulfed in flames shot through him and he tore at his ear, startled at the melting remains of his comm. unit that came away in his gloved hand. The new surge of adrenaline helped, though, and he pushed himself unsteadily to his feet, brutally reminded that he’d been shot when fresh, bright agony tore through his torso. He leaned on the wall; half curled over, one hand pressed against the wound, the other bracing him against the wall.

He knew he had to get the hell out of here. If the smoke and the emanate collapse of the building didn’t kill him he’d end up in the tender care of the police. And that was a death of another kind.

So he forced himself to move, one foot in front of the other, leaning heavily on the wall that was scorching hot and hoping vehemently that he was heading in a direction that wasn’t yet crawling with cops. Hoping that if he was unlucky enough to waltz right into the arms of the law they didn’t shoot first and question his corpse. He really didn’t need more holes in him at the moment.

His vision, what little he could discern through eyes squinted against the smoke, was wavering in and out, going from indecipherable gray to blurry colors that should *not* be there at all. Walking was taking a great deal of concentration, hell staying on his feet was taking an effort of will he was barely managing. Oh hell yeah he was concussed, the bright purples and blues and whites swirling right in front of him told him that much; or maybe that was the lack of oxygen.

He coughed, lungs trying to rid themselves of some of the noxious poison he was sucking down, his ribs very clearly protesting the violent movement. If he made it out of this fucking alley he was probably going to bleed to death in another one. The others must have left. Surely they weren’t stupid enough to hang around and get arrested.

Which meant that no one was going to swoop in at the last minute and save him. That sucked, but he was in too much pain, too focused on escape, to rant at the injustice of the universe. Numbness was crawling out from the bullet wound, his body going into shock, shutting down. It was a race to see what would kill him, the blood loss or the smoke. For his money, Yohji was going with the smoke. Mostly because he *couldn’t* *fucking* *breathe*!

Arms went around him, surprising the hell out of him. It shocked his mind awake again, heart lurching with *new* fear. Between the smoke and his failing vision he couldn’t see who it was- cop or stupidly helpfully stranger- but he fought the hands reflexively, throwing himself away from the other person.

He didn’t find it difficult to believe that whoever it was had no problem holding on to him, as he was nearly too weak to stand, much less put up any kind of resistance.

His captor laughed and, even over the roar of the fire and the screaming of metal as the building started to collapse and his fading consciousness, he knew that laugh.

Schuldig.

He jerked, fighting now with desperation as blackness began to close over him. He’d have happily flung himself into police custody, or hell, back into the flames, to escape the Swartz psychopath. But his body betrayed him, muscles going limp as he lost his tentative grip on consciousness. From far away he felt himself being lifted . . . and then . . . everything ceased to matter.