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It starts with the goddamn media. His picture is splashed across millions of screens in Japan, and while it’s just for a second that’s more than long enough. Amuro Tooru has no reason to be sniffing round the Edge of Ocean, and nor does Bourbon.
It gets back to Vermouth, of course. She sits like a spider in the centre of a web of contacts, devouring information from across the globe with frightening voracity.
She calls him up the morning after the White Swan capsule lands in Tokyo Bay, his arm aching with four new stitches and his Mazda a burnt-out pile of scrap on reclaimed land. “Bourbon,” she drawls, voice sinisterly flattering, “what have you been up to?”
He lies fluently – a simple story about checking the complex in case the Organization required any action on the upcoming diplomatic conference.
He knows it doesn’t work because she asks to see him in person.
Good NOCs always plan at least three steps ahead, and Rei is very good. He agrees to meet her at a café on a busy Chiyoda street. Then he calls Kazami.
The meeting is all blunt questions and veiled threats, Vermouth’s claws like a cat’s – retracted for the moment but ever-present and razor-sharp. Rei sticks to his line – apart from the one still picked up by several of the mass media stations there’s nothing incriminating, and his cover story is solid enough. But that’s not sufficient to clear him. Vermouth holds her suspicions as tightly as mothers guard their children.
He settles the bill and Vermouth precedes him out the café door and into the frigid January air, her blonde hair a bright dash of colour in the grey day. He sees a car pull out into the road further down the street, just as Vermouth moves towards the kerb to cross. As she steps down it revs its engine and blasts forward.
Rei moves like lightning. He grabs Vermouth’s elbow and uses his momentum to swing her in a full circle up onto the kerb while he himself is propelled into the street. The car swerves, but not wide enough, and the mirror catches his side, his arm thudding against the windscreen. He spins like a top, loses his footing in the gutter, and goes down hard.
When he looks up, awash in a sea of pain, Vermouth is already gone. Becoming conspicuous in any way is taboo, and she fled before their little scene could attract attention. With the help of some passers-by, Rei gets shakily to his feet. His side hurts like hell, his arm isn’t much better, and he’s twisted his ankle.
Just as the shock is beginning to thaw into agony, a red Mustang with racing stripes pulls up. The passenger door opens.
Inside is Akai Shuuichi.
“Get in,” says the FBI dog.
Rei, to his own surprise, does.
Dropping down onto the stiff seat jolts his ribs painfully; Rei tucks his aching elbow against his side and, as the Mustang pulls away from the kerb asks acerbically: “What the hell do you think you’re doing here?”
Akai changes up through the gears smoothly, navigating around a kei car and into the right-hand lane. A moment later he’s turned down a side road, leaving the café behind them.
“If you wanted someone to run you down, Furuya-kun, you had but to ask,” replies Akai in a generous tone.
“As though I could have trusted you to miss,” retorts Furuya stingingly.
“Clearly you couldn’t trust your subordinate to.”
Irritatingly, it’s a fair point. In his pants pocket his phone buzzes. Rei pulls it out with his uninjured hand. The text is from Vermouth: Quick thinking. Anything broken? It’s saccharine concern for her; clearly endangering himself to protect her erased any remaining suspicions.
His ribs may well be broken – his arm isn’t, just bruised like hell. His ankle, he thinks, is just twisted. No, he replies, Just bruised my pride.
He puts his phone away and looks up. They’re on the freeway now, headed towards Shinjuku. “Are you going to tell me why you were following me?” he asks icily.
“I thought you might need someone to pull you out of hot water with the Organization. That footage made the rounds faster than celebrity nudes.”
“I can look after myself, thank you very much,” replies Rei.
Akai gives him a long look out of the corner of his eye. Rei glares. “You can’t intimidate me, FBI.”
Akai turns back to the road. “Perish the thought.”
***
Eventually they pull up at a weather-stained, rusty apartment building in a Shinjuku back alley. Akai is much faster than Rei at disembarking; by the time Rei gets out Akai has rounded the hood. Rei takes one step, stumbles on his bad ankle, and falls into Akai’s arms.
With his nose pressed against Akai’s chest, Rei has just an instant to note that Akai smells of cigarette smoke and peppermint as he had before, then he is shoving himself away, furious as a spitting cat. Akai releases him as he pulls back and he takes one large limping step backwards. Akai holds up his hands in a gesture of apologetic peace offering, his eyebrows quirked. “I don’t bite, Furuya-kun,” he says calmly.
“Then you should be in a different line of work. Dogs only live as long as their teeth. Or didn’t you know?” His tone is spiteful, his eyes sharp and furious.
How dare Akai show up and try to rescue him? How dare he imply that he saved the day?
How dare he witness Rei’s weakness?
“You would prefer me to be cruel?”
“I would prefer you not to be such an unmitigated asshole. But we don’t all get what we want.”
“No,” says Akai, a smile playing about his lips, “we don’t. It’s this way to the stairs.”
“Why aren’t you taking me home?” asks Rei, not budging. “You know where I live, after all.” And what a fiasco that is.
“You were just struck by a car. You need first aid.”
“Then take me to a clinic.”
Akai cocks an eyebrow. “Is that what you want? If something is broken Vermouth will get a hold of your records and sideline you.”
Rei eyes him scathingly. “And you think you’re a better alternative?”
“At least until things have cooled down enough for you to see your own doctor.”
Rei turns to look up at the gritty stucco stairs leading to the apartment building’s upper floors. His ankle throbs.
He’s not sure what he hates more at the moment: that the FBI dog’s right, or that his apartment isn’t on the ground floor.
“Alright,” he grits out, ungraciously. “You lead.”
Akai gives him a disapproving look but does so, mounting the stairs ahead of Rei.
The first flight is barely manageable. The second is agony. His ankle can’t support much weight, requiring him to lean heavily on the handrail. But his arm is aflame, and the effort is making him pant which sends shooting pains through his ribs.
“I could carry you,” suggests Akai, his voice penetrating into Rei’s fog of agony. He looks up, ready to curse out the agent for his joke, and sees that Akai is serious.
It leaves Rei momentarily speechless. Akai apparently takes this for consent because he steps closer, his black woollen coat brushing against Rei’s mustard-colour camel hair.
“I’m fine,” snaps Rei, raising his hand to fend off Akai’s.
“You’re clearly not. And we have another two flights to go.”
“Wanted a view?” asks Rei, sarcastically. Akai ignores it for the pettiness it is. Instead of trying to lift Rei he ducks to slide his shoulder under Rei’s, supporting a good portion of his weight. It makes Rei’s arm ache, but improves his ankle. This close, Rei can feel the solid press of Akai’s sidearm against his armpit.
By the time they reach the fourth floor Rei is gasping for breath through gritted teeth, his head buried against Akai’s shoulder. He slumps immediately against the wall when they reach the walkway, feeling sick and dizzy with the pain. His deadened ears only just catch the sound of Akai unlocking the door.
Gentle hands take him by the shoulder and lead him over a doorstep and into a narrow entryway. He toes off his shoes by force of habit and is escorted to a chair.
“Sit,” says Akai, pushing him down.
He sits.
Akai is gone for a few moments, during which time Rei gathers himself sufficiently to note that this is a safe house, not Akai’s home. There’s a shabbily made bed, a table and two chairs, and a kitchen counter holding just a gas burner and a sink with a bar fridge below. The cupboards he suspects are stocked with non-perishables in the fashion of safe houses everywhere. There’s a notice in English instructing guests to clean up after themselves.
Akai returns with a white metal box emblazoned with a red cross. He puts it down on the floor and kneels beside it. Without asking, he reaches out and rolls up Rei’s pant leg, revealing his swollen, throbbing ankle. He puts his hands gently over it like a man calming a spooked horse, and slowly manipulates the joint, moving Rei’s foot this way and that. The pain is intense, but bearable. Akai watches his reactions closely.
“Not broken,” he diagnoses. “You should ice it. There’s none made; I’ll put in a try.”
For a moment Rei is transported back to a time several years ago. An era before Scotch’s death, when the idea of Rye nursing him – caring for him – was conceivable.
It then occurs to Rei that for Akai, his reality never changed. Rei was the only one who scorched their relationship. Akai has never stopped trying to protect him – from the organization, from their work, from himself.
Rei suddenly can’t stand to look at him, at this man he’s showered with abuse and hatred for years. At this man whose integrity and value he has only recently begun to reassess.
“Fine,” he says, head turned sharply to the side. He’s aware of Akai’s cat-green eyes on him, then the FBI agent turns away.
He has a few minutes to gather his thoughts while Akai makes ice. Until last month, of course, there wouldn’t have been anything to think about. His hatred had become a reflex, no different than cold bringing out goosebumps. Then had come Akai’s impromptu visit, face-down in his entryway with a bullet hole in his back. And with it, Rei’s begrudging acceptance that perhaps not all the blame for Scotch’s death lay with Akai. That while Akai was doubtless still a bastard he might not be the soulless monster Rei had taken him for.
It’s not that he hasn’t thought about Akai since. On the contrary, he’s dedicated hours upon hours of reflection to the FBI agent’s possible motives and intentions. But somehow, coming face-to-face with him unexpectedly has left Rei struggling with his emotions. His old hatred is still deeply ingrained, and fighting it down feels wrong. Akai just inherently pisses him off. For that Rei blames Akai, not himself.
The FBI dog returns to stand over him, looming like a tower over Rei. “Take this off,” he says, tugging at Rei’s button-up.
“You could ask nicely,” Rei retorts.
“You’d like me to beg you to strip for me?”
Rei glares. This is the Rye of old: bold, fearless, and extremely ironic. He yanks his coat off his good arm, and finds he can’t twist to remove his bad arm from its sleeve – his ribs and arm both scream with agony. He gulps in a breath, eyes snapping shut.
When he opens them, Akai has taken his coat and is sliding it off gently. It barely aches; Akai slips it off and drops it on the floor.
“That’s Takeo Kikuchi, you bastard,” growls Rei. Akai glances down at the coat, then back up to Rei.
“Pardon me,” he says dryly, beginning to unbutton Rei’s shirt. His long dextrous fingers make quick work of the fastenings, revealing Rei’s tanned chest. As Akai reaches the bottom button the back of his fingers brush against Rei’s abdomen, warm skin against warm skin. Rei’s eyes narrow, but he sees no sign of taunting in Akai’s face. His expression is one of concentration, carefully pulling Rei’s shirt away from his side.
Rei glances down and sees that his side is already black and red, bruises blossoming like a morning glory at the sun’s touch.
Akai presses gently against his side; the pain is red-hot, radiating through him like injected acid burning his flesh and bones from the inside out.
“Does that hurt?”
“What the fuck,” gasps Rei through gritted teeth, “do you think?” He tries to elbow Akai away but the FBI dog is too fast for him, ducking the swipe and splaying his hands across Rei’s side. He’s stopped the pressure; his touch is light as snowfall against Rei’s skin. He examines the bruises carefully, face close enough that Rei could easily break his nose with his knee. He relieves his tension by imagining it: the crack of bone against bone, Akai sprawling at his feet, bloody and embarrassed.
It doesn’t bring him the joy it once would have. In fact, he feels a tiny nibble of guilt.
Akai looks up, straightening. “They may well be broken, but there’s nothing to be done about it. You’ll have to deal with it.”
“Thanks,” replies Rei, voice dripping with sarcasm. A moment later Akai is putting pressure on his shoulder, turning him and extending his arm. He raises and lowers it, twisting it this way and that. “I’m not a goddamn screwdriver,” grits out Rei. Akai’s lips twitch.
“But I would let you screw me, Furuya-kun.”
Rei’s heart skips a beat, stomach contracting tightly. “That’s not funny,” he snaps, pulling his arm away.
“Was I joking?” Akai looks straight at him, eyes calm and watchful. “I didn’t realize my intentions were so opaque,” he adds. “I’ve spent years going out of my way to keep an eye on you.”
“Yes, like a cat plays with its food. How could I treat that seriously?” demands Rei. “Your sense of reality is totally skewed. You’ve been taunting me for years.”
Akai does smile now. “You are fun when you’re angry, Furuya-kun. I have no interest in Amuro Tooru’s smiles and platitudes. I want Bourbon’s teeth and claws.”
Rei briefly regrets not breaking Akai’s nose when he had the chance. But Akai’s hands are still on his wrist and shoulder, pressure soft but persistent. And Rei very briefly finds himself imagining the talented fingers which made such brief work of his shirt moving lower.
“I don’t recall ever playing the fool for you,” replies Rei, meeting Akai’s eyes unflinchingly.
“Is that a sign of respect, or dismissal?” asks Akai rhetorically. His thumb brushes the raised fabric of the bandage over Rei’s stitches; his eyes flicker down and he pulls Rei’s sleeve away to reveal the coarse white gauze. There’s a pink stain over the wound. “What happened?” he asks.
“Shot my way through a tempered glass window,” replies Rei, cautious in the face of his concern.
“That’s a bugger.” Akai twitches his shirt back up to cover his shoulder, as if suddenly concerned with propriety. “Arm’s not broken,” he adds, releasing it.
Rei suddenly misses the warmth of his touch. It’s been a long time since he allowed anyone to lay hands on him – come to think of it the last time had been Akai as well, although on that occasion it had been blows rather than tenderness.
He wonders abruptly if in the intervening time Akai found anyone to care for him. He has an inexplicable charisma, although he’s never turned it on Rei. Rei turns that puzzle over in his mind.
“Deep thoughts?” breaks in Akai.
“How is it,” asks Rei with a trace of exasperation, “that women fall so readily for you when you’re such a bastard?”
Akai laughs out loud, a deep, musical chuckle. He could have provided the band of theirs that never was with vocals, accompanying Bourbon’s guitar and Scotch’s bass. They would have called themselves Neat Whisky, Rei thinks frivolously.
“The women in my life wanted someone to look up to. You wanted a rival.”
“Maybe you would get farther in life if you asked rather than assumed what was wanted,” retorts Rei.
Akai considers him. His words are a minute coming, his tone quiet – serious. “If I asked you, would you take me into your heart?”
“I thought you just wanted into my pants,” replies Rei, playing for time. The idea that Akai wanted to fuck him had come as a shock. The notion that he could want more than that… Rei has trouble contemplating it, despite the bonds they share.
“I play for keeps, Furuya-kun. If I had only wanted a tumble, I would have approached you years ago.
Rei shakes his head slowly. He’s aching and lightheaded, still a little shocked from the collision. This isn’t the time or the place to make serious decisions. “I can’t do this right now.” He runs his good hand through his hair, teeth gritted. “Ask me later.”
Akai rises. “Of course,” he says politely – distantly. “I’ll see how the ice is getting on.”
***
Akai leaves not long afterwards – whether because he’s avoiding the awkwardness that’s kindled between them or because it’s not a good idea for two NOCs to be together for very long, Rei can’t tell. He leaves behind an ice-packed towel and his phone number on a scrap of paper. He doesn’t ask for Rei’s in return, leaving the next move up to the PSB agent.
Rei sits alone in the safe house for hours, until the ice melts and leaves his sock soaking. With his ankle suitably numb and the swelling reduced, he hobbles slowly down the stairs and into the street where he catches a cab home. Tucked away safely in his apartment with a proper ice pack and his foot elevated, Rei sits up with a glass of scotch. It’s late, but he can’t sleep. Not until he makes a decision.
If he doesn’t reach out to Akai he doubts if he’ll hear from the FBI agent again – certainly not in any way other than professional. Last month, last week even, that would have seemed an appealing option. But now all he can remember is the warmth and gentleness of Akai’s hands on him, the smell of him and the green of his eyes. And, reluctantly, the way his heart caught at Akai’s confession.
It’s almost midnight before he sends a single text t the number half-crumpled in his hand: 0.
When Akai’s ready, he’ll be able to contact him again.
END