Chapter Text
Rei isn’t expecting the knock.
His Amuro Tooru apartment is small – just one long room plus bathroom – divided into a kitchen/dining area, and a living/sleeping area. His table and chairs are the only real pieces of furniture; he sleeps on a futon and otherwise spends little time in the apartment. Between Amuro’s busy life and Bourbon’s missions he doesn’t have much downtime.
He’s at home washing dishes when the knock comes, an apron over his clothes because Amuro would put on an apron to do dishes. He’s wearing a cashmere sweater and designer slacks, after all. He lets the dish he’s washing sink back into the warm suds, dries his reddening hands on a towel, and goes to the door.
Where, through the peephole, he sees Akai Shuuichi.
His first instinct is to go for his gun. NOCs live by their instincts, and he doesn’t discount this one. It takes him only three seconds to cross the tiny apartment and slide his Heckler & Koch from its open lockbox; another 3 seconds to return to the door. Then he opens it and points his pistol square in Akai’s face.
The FBI dog looks down at him, lip curling slightly.
Then he faints.
Rei watches him drop. His knees hit the floor first and his long limbs spill forward, torso following and finally his head slumps against the wall.
There’s a bullet hole in the back of his jacket.
Rei doesn’t freeze. No NOC alive has kept his life by burning precious time being startled, and Rei is one of the best. He yanks Akai fully inside, out of the line of fire, and flattens himself against the wall to peer outside.
There’s no sign of a shooter on the building opposite, no blood splatter on the walkway outside his apartment. He heard no shot, and he has a hard time imagining Akai standing blithely to knock at his door while under fire. Wherever he was shot, it wasn’t here. Rei kicks Akai’s long legs aside and closes the door. Then he stares down at the FBI agent slumped in his entryway.
In his dreams, his relationship with Akai is supremely simple: he is the man who will end the FBI dog. He’s dedicated years to the pursuit – burned time and money and favours like a votive offering to the gods of revenge. Has imagined the day when his defeated enemy will lie draped at his feet, when he will finally emerge victorious.
In reality, though, nothing is simple. Looking down at Akai pooled before him, he feels none of the elation he expected. Feels nothing but anxiety and uncertainty: has Akai’s secret been shattered? Has Gin or Vermouth learned of his faked execution and called out the hounds? Worse, has he dragged Rei down into the pit of his failure?
He plays the muzzle of his P7 against Akai’s cheek, draws it down the sharp line of his chin and tucks it in against his neck. He feels no flush of victory. Perhaps it’s simply because Akai’s unconscious and unable to appreciate the fact that he lost.
Rei tucks his gun into the back of his waistband and leans down to grab Akai’s arms. Pulls him across the apartment like a sack of rice, his jeans scratching against the smooth laminate. He drops the FBI dog on the floor beside his TV and pulls his coat off.
Beneath the coat Akai is wearing a navy shirt; it’s soaked through with blood down to his waistline. The bullet wound is a through-and-through, in the back of his shoulder and out the front, and both sides of him are coated with crimson. He’s clearly been travelling for some time to get to Rei’s apartment; hopefully he shook off whoever might have been tailing him in the process.
Rei goes into his closet and digs out his first aid kit; it’s well-stocked and hefty. He also grabs a bowl and his worst dish towel. He hauls it all over to Akai and with his bare hands rips the FBI agent’s shirt off him. This reveals toned skin, firm muscle, and a lot of blood. The bullet wound is dark and puckered, about a centimeter below his collarbone on the right side. Poor shot, thinks Rei.
He takes a moment to search Akai, taking a Glock 19M, a switch blade, a credit card knife, and a razor off him. Then he tosses the ruined shirt in the bowl where it can’t drip on his pristine floor, and uses the dish towel to wipe the blood off Akai’s chest. It’s even sunk into his pants beneath the belt, staining the dark blue jeans black. There’s nothing he can do about that, and he’s sure as hell not taking off Akai’s pants, so he leaves it be.
Really, the FBI agent needs surgery and a blood transfusion. But he’s not getting that here, so Rei puts on a thick absorbent patch on both the entry and exit wounds and finishes cleaning off as much blood up as he can. Then he gets his cable ties and secures Akai’s hands behind his back. It won’t do the gunshot wound any favours, but he’s not in danger of dying – he can stand some discomfort.
Well, alright, a lot of discomfort.
Job done, Rei cleans up. Then he brings over a chair and his laptop, and sits down to wait.
***
In the hour it takes Akai to regain consciousness, Rei discovers that Jenever is in town on a mission from Gin – he always was Gin’s little lick ass – and that he hasn’t checked in recently. Rei hopes he’s dead, not just because it would simplify matters greatly but also because he never liked the bastard. He’d taken to badmouthing Scotch after the PSB agent’s death, constantly demeaning and belittling him, and it had taken all Rei’s considerable control to keep from punching him in the face.
He’s just typing a message to Azusa to let her know he might not be able to come in tomorrow when Akai stirs. Rei finishes his message, closes his laptop and puts it down.
Then he casually produces his side arm and points it square at Akai’s face.
The FBI dog shifts and abruptly stops as his movement pulls at his wound, face tightening. He eyes draw open slightly, teeth partially bared in pain. He looks up and sees Rei.
“Welcome back,” says Rei darkly, grinning. “I wasn’t expecting Christmas to come early. But here you are.”
“You’re welcome,” grits out Akai, voice so rough his words are nearly incomprehensible. He’s panting a little, head rolling towards the ceiling.
“Time for a round of 20 questions,” says Rei, savouring the delicious sensation of his smile – and the glare Akai throws at him. “I’m asking. Who shot you?”
Akai clearly considers not answering, and, eyes on Rei’s gun, decides against it. “Jenever.”
“And where is he now?”
“Dead,” replies Akai simply, confirming Rei’s suspicions.
“Does anyone else know you’re alive?”
Akai pauses slightly. “I don’t think so.” His eyes fall to Rei’s laptop. “What do your sources say?”
Rei tsks. “That’s for me to know.” He shifts his gun slightly, pointedly. “Why did you come to my apartment?”
“Because no one would think to look for me here.”
“And that seemed smarter than going to your American friends?”
“In a hotel in Ginza? Like this?” replies Akai, eyes sliding closed momentarily and jaw tightening against the pain. He rests his head on the floor, breathing harsh.
It’s a fair point; he would never have made it without attracting unwanted attention. Hospitals are automatically off-limits – they’re the first places the Organization would watch. And holing up in a safe house alone might mean death by bleeding out slowly.
But how that makes Rei’s apartment the number 1 choice is a staggering mystery.
“You realize that I could kill you now,” says Rei.
Akai snorts softly without opening his eyes.
“You think I wouldn’t?” demands Rei, tensing.
“You haven’t yet.”
“Maybe I just wanted you to be awake to appreciate it,” snaps Rei.
“You need me,” replies Akai, taking in a breath through gritted teeth.
Rei affects puzzlement, ignoring the FBI agent’s obvious pain. “Do I? What for?”
Akai opens his eyes and looks up. His gaze is intense, eyes hard. “Because you can’t take down the Organization without me.”
Rei stands abruptly, kicks away his chair, and squats down beside Akai to press his pistol against Akai’s cheekbone. “Really?” he growls, staring the agent in the eye. “Because only one of us is still undercover. Only one of us is actually doing the work while the other one was forced to fake his death to dig himself out of the pile of shit he landed himself in. You tell me, Akai Shuuichi. Which of us is the better agent?”
Without warning, Akai rolls over right into him, knocking him off balance and sending him sprawling backwards. He’s up in an instant with his gun pointed squarely at Akai’s head. Akai’s sitting up cross-legged now, panting hard. His hands are still secured behind his back; the patch at his shoulder is beginning to turn pink.
“That wasn’t very bright,” says Rei, heart pounding. He could easily have killed Akai, shot him right here on his apartment floor.
For some reason the thought sends ice water through his veins.
“I don’t like guns in my face,” replies Akai.
“Then maybe you shouldn’t have come here. What were you expecting? A red carpet? Did you really think I wouldn’t end you because I believe you’re better than me?” he snarls.
Akai stares back steadily. “I don’t think I’m better than you. I think you need me.”
Rei snaps forward, and kicks the heel of his foot right into Akai’s bullet wound, slamming him back against the wall and holding him there while he points the gun at him. “I. Don’t. Need. You.”
But Akai has passed out.
***
He calls Kazami. It’s not because he needs Akai, it’s not because he’s worried about Akai. It’s because if the bastard dies here in his apartment he’ll never get his body out without alerting the neighbours.
Kazami agrees to arrange for a doctor. Rei considers leaving Akai as he is, on the floor with his arms strapped behind his back, but decides it’s probably a better idea to keep the doctor’s good will. So he drags out his futon, cuts the cable tie off, and dumps Akai onto his bed. He leaves the blanket off – he needs to have a line of sight to Akai’s hands. Then he tucks his pistol away again, taking care to pull his sweater over its grip, and sits down to wait.
The doctor arrives half an hour later, dressed as a plumber – there’s no such thing as too much precaution. The man is carrying a heavy case disguised as a plumber’s bag but presumably filled with medical supplies. He’s young, with thick over-grown hair and glasses. Rei recognizes him as the PSB police surgeon, but doubts the man recognizes him. “You can call me Hanada,” the doctor says.
“It’s better if you don’t know my name,” replies Rei. He leads the doctor into his apartment and over to the futon where Akai’s lying, still unconscious. “He was shot in the back at least two hours ago,” he adds, standing behind the doctor watchfully.
Although the doctor is better equipped and better educated than Rei, there’s not that much he can do for Akai in the confines of Rei’s apartment. He makes a much better job of cleaning out the wounds than Rei did, redresses them and hooks up a saline IV, and gives Akai a shot of antibiotics. “He needs surgery,” he tells Rei when he’s finished.
Rei considers suggesting it’s up to Akai to sort that out, but doubts the doctor would buy it. “Is there a private clinic he could go to?”
“For a gunshot wound?”
“It’s important he remains anonymous.”
Hanada considers. “I can arrange something. How should I reach you?”
“Arrange it with Kazami. He’ll contact me.”
The doctor nods. “His bleeding has nearly stopped – if it starts again, or if he becomes delirious, contact me immediately.”
“Of course,” lies Rei pleasantly. He waits for the doctor to pack up his equipment in the plumber’s bag, then shows him the door. Leaving him alone once again with the FBI dog.
“Looks like your care is up to me,” he tells the unconscious man. And smirks.