48 Days

A/N: I didn’t realize my italics weren’t showing up! So I’ve had to modify things. If you’ve already read the first chapter, you might want to reread so you can see where I meant for emphases to be.

So now /blah/= thoughts *blah*= emphasis ~blah~= telepathic speech.

Oh, and I’ll make minor edits to things as we go, sometimes things don’t go quite the way I plan. Shouldn\'t be anything major enough to alter the story line, though. Please excuse my fumbling! And enjoy!


Chapter Two: Hand of the Enemy


December 10
Aya hated this room. The ‘mission room’ they called it, because that was a neat, concise way of putting it. Located, roughly beneath their kitchen, accessible through a door that opened onto a set of spiral, metal stairs leading downward into the darkness of what, in other houses, might’ve been termed a basement. It always seemed dark to him, no matter how many lights they’d turned on- when they bothered to turn them on at all. Most times they didn’t. Aya wasn’t really sure why they didn’t turn them on when Manx brought them their missions, whether it was to add intensity to what they were shown, or if they were all just trying to hide in the shadows themselves.

This room, furnished with a couch of some odd, armless variety, that he had no idea how anyone had ever gotten it down those narrow stairs, and two chairs, one of which was usually stationed in front of the computer. All of it focused around an ancient specimen of a TV with an equally out-dated VCR sitting on top of it. Nothing decorative, nothing personal, because they didn’t come here for anything beyond a single purpose. This was a room tainted with death. Here was where they listened to lists of wrongdoing, atrocities committed against innocent people, before receiving the command to kill.

This was where they agreed to do murder. This was where they sat, for hours or days, planning a mission. Deciding if it was better to kill a dozen bodyguards or to wait a few days on the off chance that they could catch the target alone. They poured over schematics, arguing out the best positions for each of them, where they’d be most effective, which way the target was most likely to run. Where they had to worry over security systems and sentry placements and shift changes. Wondering how many people they’d have to kill to accomplish their objective and come back alive.

And sometimes the mission got fucked up and this was where they came to try to fix it.

Only this time . . .

Maybe it was only him, that thought the room was made darker by the lack of Yohji’s presence. Maybe he was the only one made edgy by the absence of cigarette smoke tainting the air. Maybe he was the only one feeling the empty place Yohji left in the room, but he doubted it.

He sat on the couch, where he’d been sitting for the past six hours or more; he hadn’t bothered to look at his watch for a long time. He hadn’t changed out of his mission clothes, hadn’t showered to scour the dried, flaking blood of his victims from his skin. He’d just . . . sat there, arms resting across his thighs, unfocused eyes showing him his blood and mud speckled boots. He sat there, unmoving, as the same thoughts ran circles around his weary, shell-shocked brain.

He’d looked up, once, when Manx had made her appearance, hours ago, promising Kritiker was ‘doing everything in its power to locate Balinese’. But they hadn’t found him yet.

So Aya’s face had turned back to the floor and Manx had talked with Omi and, eventually, she’d gone away again. He’d wanted to scream at her, demand she find Yohji, demand that something be *done*. Only, they were already doing everything that could feasibly be done to locate Yohji, they even had agents out combing the area around the collapsed building.

But knowing that didn’t lessen the urgency within him, didn’t lessen the need to leave the house and search for Yohji till he found him and brought him home and told him he was so *sorry* and-

But he knew better than to try to find the blond single-handedly. Right now, there was nothing he could do, no reason to rise from where he sat, hunched over the cold, empty place in his stomach. He could pace, as Ken was doing, tracing and retracing the limits of the room like the tiger he was named after. But it would do nothing but waste precious energy; energy he would need the moment they found out where Yohji was, so he could go get the tall blond. Moving restlessly around the room would do nothing to relieve the tension singing through his veins, anyway, nothing would except having Yohji safe, where he could touch him and guard him and never *ever* let him out of his sight again.

He registered the rapid clicking of Omi’s fingers dancing over his keyboard as he hacked into police files and hospital records, searching for anything that might offer even a clue to their friend’s whereabouts. Anything. A John Doe admitted to the hospital, conscious or not, with a gunshot wound to the abdominal area. A report of a suspicious person in an ever-widening radius as time went on and they had to factor in the possibility that Yohji might still be on the move. Combing over the reports from police and media surrounding their mission, anyone taken into custody, anyone questioned, anyone spotted fleeing the scene, even . . . bodies discovered in near-by alleys and abandoned buildings.

And still *nothing*.

They knew Yohji had been hurt before the explosion, knew he hadn’t made it out his planned escape route. He’d need medical attention and if he wasn’t using in of the Kritiker safe houses or the regular hospitals, that left dozens, maybe hundreds, of underground medical facilities that wouldn’t ask question and didn’t have records. Yakuza, religious charities, a few shelters, even, that wouldn’t report an obviously shot young man stumbling up to their doors. And the gods knew how many people Yohji actually had contacts with. The blond knew *everyone*, so good with people, so easy for him to gain their trust.

He could be anywhere in the city by now. And if he’d managed to reach a safe place, why hadn’t he contacted them? Surely he wasn’t hurt that badly? No. No, he couldn’t be hurt badly. He’d gotten out. He was okay, Aya was certain of it.

Yohji had to be okay.

/Gods, please let him be okay./

This was all his fault. He’d ignored the rules- Weiss’ rules *again*, and this time his teammate had paid the price. Yohji’d paid the price. Yohji, whose absence, left a painful aching in his chest.

He couldn’t lose Yohji.

This was all his fault.

And now, after months of telling himself their arrangement didn’t matter, suddenly it did. It mattered a great deal. What purpose did is serve now, to try to convince himself that he felt nothing for the older man? What good was all his pride and his focus and his sincere desire never to love anyone again? What good was any of it, now that Yohji wasn’t here and it felt like his heart was being shredded by every minute that passed with no word of the man’s safety?

And what good was loving the man, admitting it, finally, to himself, if he could not share it with the one he loved?

He just wanted Yohji *here*. Just wanted him to *be* here, with him. Safe and whole. Wanted, with an intensity that caught him off guard, to pull the golden body into his arms and hold him closely and stroke his hair and breathe his scent. Wanted Yohji to hold him and tell him everything was going to be okay.

But Yohji couldn’t tell him things would be alright, because he *wasn’t* here and it was *all* *his* *fault*!!

/Gods, Yohji, please be alive!/

Everything was his fault. He’d abandoned the mission plan- abandoned *Yohji*.

/Come back to me. Come back to me so I can tell you all the things I should’ve told you long ago. Come back, Yohji, please. Please don’t leave me./

He had to tell his lover what a fool he’d been. He had to tell him he was sorry and he’d never *ever* meant for him to be hurt. Had to tell him how his heart had clenched when Yohji’d radioed that he’d been shot and how stupid he’d been not to go back in to find him. Had to tell him of the growing dread that had overwhelmed him as he’d stood outside the building, eyes straining to catch sight of that lithe body escaping. And how, when he’d realized that Yohji wasn’t out and the building was going to explode, that he couldn’t breath through the fear and all he could think was the man’s name over and over and over until he was screaming it.

He needed Yohji to come back so he could breathe again. So he could stop wanting to scream and scream and tear at his hair and skin till he bled just to let this hollowing frustration and terrifying fear *out* of him.

He needed Yohji to come home and love him again and make him forget this darkness welling inside him that told him he was a fool and he’d let one of the few things that made his existence bearable slip through his fingers and been to *stupid* to understand what it meant to him until it was too late- Hadn’t even lost it, he’d thrown it away, brushing off Yohji’s offers of affections and tenderness and now he might never get to have them. And it was all his fault, for being so willfully blind, not wanting it to matter, telling himself it didn’t matter again and again until he’d made himself believe it didn’t. And it took this disaster to show him the truth?

Was he really so much a fool that he had to lose someone before he could admit he loved them? Had he really thought that by telling himself he didn’t want Yohji’s love it’d somehow hurt less if he lost him?

He couldn’t lose Yohji. Not now. What a pathetic imbecile he’d been to fight it for so long.

What had he been thinking? So fucking *stupid* of him to change the plan and not even inform his teammates. And now Yohji was missing, lost somewhere, hurt and unable to contact them. *Not* in the rumble. *Not* dead.

Yohji wasn’t dead. He couldn’t be dead. After all, Balinese had escaped worse situations. The blond assassin was too stubborn, too strong, to sharp to let a falling building take him out. He was too good to die like that. So he was alive. They just hadn’t found him yet.

He *was* alive. They’d find him. He just had to wait. Then he could make things right between them. He wouldn’t *ever* push him away again. He wouldn’t snap at him for petty reason or pretend he didn’t long for those talented hands to be on him every moment of every day. Yohji could touch him however he wanted, whenever he wanted, forever- just as soon as he came home.

Until then . . . he’d stay here and try to think of enough ways to tell the man he was sorry everything, for every time he’d ever caused hurt to darken through those brilliant emerald eyes . . . And how to make Yohji believe he loved him.

Yohji was alive. They’d find him. He just had to wait. Maybe he could make it true if he believed it hard enough. He was going to try.


* * *


Kudoh Yohji had, over the course of his life, woken up to find himself in fantastically shitty situations, in odd places, in trouble, and/or *about* to be in trouble. Being a fan of the bottle had landed him in gutters, on park benches, alleyways, and the beds of people he could not, for the life of him, recall from the previous evening. And being an even bigger fan of pleasures of the flesh, he’d woken more than once to find a jealous boyfriend or husband ready to tear him to pieces. He’d even, on occasion, lost significant articles of clothing while hauling ass out of the middle of such domestic disputes.

He had not, however, ever woken up in a situation anywhere nearly as bad as the one he presently found himself in.

Aside from the fact that he was *not* home and *not* in a hospital and *not* in any kind of jail his previous experiences with the police had introduced him to- he had no idea where he *was*. And, as if that wasn’t bad enough, he had nothing he hadn’t been born with, aside from the bandages and gauze liberally scattered over his aching body, dulled by the familiar feeling of heavy pain medication. His side pulled in a way that indicated, to the frequently wounded, anyway, that beneath the gauze lay stitches.

Stitches . . . For the gunshot wound . . . His frantic dash to safety, that he hadn’t reached . . . Confused memories of darkness broken by flames and the knowledge that he was going to die. And . . .

*That* memory came to him suddenly, as sharp and clear as broken glass, leaping forward to dominate his mind and all his worries.

Swartz.

Schuldig.

He was so fucked.

He forced himself into a sitting position, ignoring the pain that drained the blood from his face at the movement. Pinched green eyes darted around his bare little room and found not so much as a blanket to cover himself with. Four unadorned white walls illuminated by a single strip of fluorescent lighting, the kind always found in office buildings, sunk flush into the ceiling and covered with what appeared to be plastic. No help there. Even breaking it would only get him a floor covered with tiny shards of glass- hell for bare feet- and *maybe* a sharp enough, long enough bit of plastic to use as a weapon.

He turned his eyes to the uncomfortable, army-like cot he’d woken on. He’d have to break the light while it was still in the ceiling, which would also land him in darkness and he’d have to use the cot to do it. And his body was informing him in no uncertain terms that there was no way in hell it was going to be part to flailing about with a cot. And the cot was too cumbersome, even folded up, to use as a weapon with anything approaching efficiency. Not that his body was going to agree to using it as a modified club, either.

He supposed if he unwound the gauze . . .

Before doing that and possibly reopening wounds, he forced himself to stand and do the most reasonable thing, under the circumstances. He checked the door.

It was locked, of course, but if he hadn’t checked it . . . And it was locked from the outside, probably by a deadbolt or chain, since though the knob didn’t turn, had no place for a key. And it opened outwards, too, so no chance of working the hinges apart.

It was a homemade prison. He had to wonder how often Swartz kept P.O.W.s.

Pushing his hair- recently washed, and who the hell had done *that*?!- out of his face, he turned his attention back to the cot. It was nothing more than heavy cloth canvas stretched over a wooden frame and sewn into place. The legs would make useable clubs and if he had time to tear the canvas into strips he could make a rope, after a fashion, and possibly something to tie around his waist. Clothing was secondary to weapons. He wanted clothing because life had conditioned him to fight while clothed. Naked was an added bit of vulnerability in a situation already stacked against him. So while it was in his favor to feel safer, stronger, more confident even just subconsciously, it wasn’t as necessary to his survival as arming himself.

He lowered his battered body down beside the cot and inspected the screws that held it together. They went all the way through the middle of the two pieces of crossed wood that formed one set of legs. If he could tear the canvas this enough and thread it through the holes, he could make a swinging club that would add weight to the blows. Of course, the danger for most people with a swinging club was that if the first strike missed, they were screwed. Fortunately, Yohji had lots of experience with making ropes and chains and wires do exactly what he needed them to do. He could manage multiple strikes with his improvised weapon.

He went to work on the first of three screws, one per set of legs, the first step in disassembling the damn thing. It wasn’t especially tight. Getting the damn thing not to spin while he took the backing off was the most difficult thing. He’d almost finished the first one when the sound of a bolt shooting back sounded through the room as loud as thunder in the silence of his prison.

All planning went out the window as he scrambled up, putting his back to the far wall, his various wounds screaming protest at the violent movement. Adrenaline flushed his system, pushing back the dulling effects of whatever drugs were in his system and still, all he could think was /shitshitshit!/

The door swung open and there was the German, smiling, for all the world, like he’d just opened the door to greet an old friend. Joyous, almost. Yohji felt sick.

“You really shouldn’t fuck up your bed, you’ll be needing it,” Schuldig told him, an undercurrent of laughter in his voice.

“I appreciate the generous accommodations, but I won’t be staying long,” Yohji retorted lightly, and marveled at the fact that he was about to die and still being a smart-ass.

“I promise you’ll only stay in here until you’ve learned to behave,” the redhead offered pleasantly.

“What the fuck’s that mean?” he snarled, wishing with all his might that he could press himself *into* the wall. Disappear. Escape. Because no *way* was this going to be good. What the hell could Swartz want with him besides his death? Why the bandages and stitches and painkillers?

“It means exactly what I said.”

“Look asshole, as much as you’re obviously enjoying this little chat, why don’t you just cut the bullshit and tell me what the fuck you want, huh?”

Schuldig *moved*, with that breathless speed, and was suddenly against him, body fitting against his and holding him against the wall. By the time Yohji even registered the threat and moved to bring his hands up, the German had grabbed both his wrists, pinning them against the wall on either side of his head.

Yohji narrowed his eyes, lip curled, every muscle in his body vibrating with tension. Wanting this bastard away from him, not touching him, not *ever* touching him.

~Ah, you don’t mean that,~ Schuldig whispered inside his mind.

Yohji jerked back so hard his head cracked against the wall, making his skull flare with pain, but unable to escape the chill touch of the German’s mind against his.

“You know what I want, baby?” Schuldig purred, so close that his breath tickled over his lips. “I want you to make me believe your lies. You’re so *good* at it, Yohji. Making them think you love them, that they love you, that love is real and that they get to have it. Make me believe in something, Yohji.”

“Believe I’ll kill you the first chance I-!”

Schuldig silenced him, sealing his mouth over his in a quick, hard kiss.

Yohji tried to bite him, wanted to make this motherfucker *bleed*.
But Schuldig pulled back, laughing softly, his blue eyes sparkling. “You’re mine, baby. You’re *mine*.”