Griffon, a weiss kreuz fanfic

Griffon

Morning light streams through the windows of the shop, falling on the flowers arranged carefully on each shelf, highlighting beads of water as they roll gently off the leaves and drip onto the floor unnoticed. It catches on the small bell over the door, playing off the curves and refracting golden light across the room. Everything is suspended in time, the sepia glow of an aging photograph, tattered edges and smudges from too much care.

Slim fingers play idly with a flower petal, twisting it gently back and forth until it accidentally breaks loose. The girl blushes and looks around embarrassedly, but the shop is empty of customers except for her and the old lady behind the counter isn't paying attention. She quickly slips the pedal in her pocket and continues perusing the various plants for display.

Eventually her browsing brings her near the counter, and she gathers the courage to break the silence of the shop.

"Grandma, are the boys not working today?"

The old lady looks up but is unsurprised, her eyes seeing immediately the hopeful look, the hands clasped neatly in front of a pleated school skirt, the nervous smile with a wistful twist. The cat on her lap blinks twice and stretches in the sun, unconcerned with both the girl and the absence of the boys she speaks of.

The old lady's face wrinkles into a smile, sympathetic but unable to change anything. "I'm sorry, they took a few days off. They'll be back soon, I'm sure." The girl's smile doesn't falter but the hopeful look in her eyes disappears. She turns back to study the flowers again, to hide the disappointment in her eyes, in the way she clenches her skirt lightly with her hands.

Momoe pets her cat as time drags on, and the bell jingles as the door swings shut, the shop empty once again.

A shriveled leaf clings desperately to a naked tree limb, faint traces of snow marking the edges. If it had been a windy evening the leaf would surely fall off, but it isn't and it hasn't, the night as calm and surreal as if it had been recorded in a studio. A man walks beneath the tree, crunching footsteps the only noise of his passing, small monuments to be slowly filled in by the snow.

A sad, sad song, timeless and fragmented by the stillness of the night- he isn't sure where he heard it; the radio, perhaps, or maybe from the whistling of a stranger. Up and up, down and down, catching in a lilting sort of way. But he hums it as he walks, missing notes here and there, focusing completely on the melody because then he doesn't have to focus on anything else.

His hands are numb where they are clenched in his jacket pockets, gloveless because it isn't cold enough for gloves he had said before he left, isn't cold enough and he doesn't like them anyway, doesn't like the feel of the material on his palms, all too familiar.

But it is cold, bitter cold, and his throat and face hurt where the air bites him- strange, this coldness, because it doesn't usually get this cold at all, but he shrugs it off with the other things he doesn't understand nor care about. It's cold and it's cold, and there's nothing he can do about it.

He carries on, path never winding or meandering, intent on his melody and watching the snow fall in front of him. He carries on, head down and eyes lowered, thought pulling his mouth into a slight frown. He carries on, time passes, snow falls, and his steps carry him farther and farther from warmth, the villa, his teammates.

And when he finally reaches his destination, it surprises him because he almost thought he was just going to walk forever. But he arrives and he stops walking, stands perfectly still except for the clouds of breath that dissipate in front of him, stands at the edge of a rocky cliff, treacherous for all of its beauty, and he looks.

It is spread out in front of him- the world, the woods, the snow, it is all there, reflected in a valley untouched and uncared for, where the trees are still under their snowy burdens and nothing living stirs. Far, far in the distance is the faint glow of the city, spreading its light towards the sky, but it's not bright enough to dim the stars spread high above.

Ken looks out over this precipice, and not for the first time, he wonders what it would be like to fly.

The hallway is cast in pale blue, moonlight providing the only illumination through windows cut into one side. The floor is cracked, years of settlement taking its toll and making the entire building unstable. The smell of dust hangs over everything, and his steps leave footprints behind him as he moves.

Weiss is here to take down someone; someone who has done something heinous, Ken is sure, but he cannot for the life of him remember what it is supposed to be. It has all become unimportant and unclear, a meaningless detail in his life.

So Weiss is here to kill another target, someone who is transacting some sort of deal in this large, abandoned munitions factory, and Ken is lost. But it does not matter, not at all.

He knows as soon as he comes out of the stairwell and into the hallway that this is the place. That this is the night. He knows it in the way a mother might suddenly know her children are in danger, a realization and understanding so clear he isn't quite sure what it was ever like to not know.

He moves slowly down the hallway, the door to the stairwell swinging shut behind him with a creak of disuse, the sound muffled by the dust and the moonlight that hangs in the air.

There is a sound from behind him and he stills immediately, hands clenching and his bugnuks clicking into place. Ken waits, silent, and listens. It comes again- the groan of metal stairs under a person's weight, and Ken moves slowly to face the door to the stairwell.

The door opens, and a tall figure moves into the light. Ken feels like laughing, but he doesn't. His fists relax, bugnuks slipping out of sight, and he shifts his weight onto one hip. The figure doesn't move as the door swings shut again. Ken reaches up slowly, fingers grasping the headset that he uses to communicate with his teammates. It comes off easily, and dangles from his hand for a few seconds before he drops it unceremoniously on the floor.

And it's unclear who has been waiting for whom.

"What are you thinking about, Kenken?"

Ken almost jumps- would jump but his instincts are too well honed to give away his surprise, so instead he simply twitches and his adrenaline rushes, his hands tightening on the porch rail so hard his knuckles turn white.

"Christ, Youji, you scared the shit out of me," he states as he turns toward around. Youji is leaning against the frame of the open sliding door, the light from the inside of the villa casting his features into shadow. Ken never heard him approaching; he may be an assassin but Youji's been in the business of being stealthy for far longer than Ken has.

"Some assassin you are," Youji remarks derisively and moves away from the door, stepping out onto the porch. His features become clearer as he leaves the light- fitting, Ken thinks. It is only in the darkness that their true selves are revealed.

Ken simply shrugs and watches as Youji leans against the railing, tilting his head back nonchalantly to study the stars above. They stand next to each other in the night; Youji with his back against the rail, perfectly still except for the idle movement of his hair in the wind, Ken with his hands clenching the rail a little too tightly, studying Youji a little too closely.

"The question still stands," Youji speaks, and Ken looks away to the snow and the trees and wonders if maybe Youji is cold because he's not wearing a jacket or shoes and it is really cold out-

"Nothing," he replies, and he knows Youji won't accept that, because he knows Youji well enough. Well enough to know that Youji won't just be brushed off once he's got his mind on something, won't be pushed away once he's got his eyes set on someone.

Yes, he knows that from personal experience.

"Nothing that I'd really like to talk about right now, Youji." Nothing that he can even express in words. He doesn't understand the way he feels- doesn't understand it, doesn't like it, but somehow, it feels right.

Ken has read, somewhere, that sometimes, when a person who has labored over the idea of suicide, who has been so badly depressed that the thought of taking their own life seems the only way out, finally makes the decision to actually do it, they go through a short period of happiness, of relief. That the burden they have been carrying around on their shoulders is gone, that they have finally come to a resolution, that all their problems will soon be over.

And although he would never commit suicide because suicide is a sin against god he would like to think he is a stronger person than that, he thinks he knows what that final moment of relief feels like.

It feels like grace, like weightlessness, like a string, pulled tight for so long, has suddenly been cut. The world is brighter, colors sharper, sounds more distinct and beautiful. He finally sleeps peacefully, his dreams not chased by the victims he has taken, his nights not spent watching the world outside his bedroom window.

Youji looks at him and considers his response, but he's no busybody and if Ken says he really doesn't want to talk about it now, Youji figures he'll talk about it later. "Okay, Kenken."

Ken just smiles, one of those innocent, playful grins that he throws around all the time, and Youji can't help but smile back.

How can Ken possibly explain that he knows he is going to die soon?

There is a blossom of pain- that is, Ken thinks, the only adequate way to describe the feeling. It opens up from a tiny center, spiraling out in a rapid wave that takes his breath away, bright and burning. He thinks it has been a long time since he has felt such pain, such brightness. As soon as he thinks it the pain is joined by another, the second bullet driving him back against the wall now stained with his blood. He feels nothing for a second, an eternity, and he tries to take a deep breath but his chest just won't respond. He gasps once, twice, and the pain comes so swiftly he curls forward and vomits blood onto the concrete floor.

Ken sinks down against the wall, blood smearing behind him, some already pooling on the floor. There is a soft snick as a gun is holstered, and Ken looks up. His bangs fall into his eyes and he can feel blood in his mouth, but he knows these things won't bother him much longer. He weakly moves one hand to cover his heart, feeling the blood flow quickly from the small hole left by the second bullet. The first one pierced his lung, he knows. He can feel it. It doesn't matter. He almost laughs.

"You've got good aim."

Crawford stands straight, one hand on the gun now tucked back into the holster on his chest. His eyes meet and hold Ken's.

"You will die soon." It is as if Crawford is stating a weather report or an inane piece of trivia. And Ken knows that to Crawford, his death is just as meaningless as what tomorrow's skies will bring. But Ken smiles, grim, his teeth reddened by blood and a small rivulet running down his chin.

"I know." The words come out with a splatter of blood, and Ken would wipe his chin but he really doesn't have the energy right now.

Crawford looks at him, contemplating a thought Ken will never know, and for the slightest moment he echoes Ken's smile, tight and faint. He nods, just once, buttons his suit jacket to cover the gun, and steps forward, the moonlight playing off his glasses. Ken merely watches, unsure of Crawford's intent, but unconcerned. The American stoops down and picks up Ken's discarded headset. He lightly tosses it to Ken and it lands on the floor next to him, sliding slightly and kicking up a cloud of dust.

"I'll leave you to it, then." And with that Crawford is walking down the long hallway, disappearing into shadow before Ken hears him in the stairwell heading down, the same stairway Ken himself came out of only five minutes ago. Funny how it works, really; there is no fanfare, no light- you are alive and healthy one minute, and dying the next.

Ken reaches out and touches the headset with one hand, watching curiously the way his hand shakes as he picks it up. It's intact, a little scraped, but it is made out of much sterner stuff than he is, he thinks. He can hear, distorted and tinny, Omi's voice coming from the speaker, requesting him to radio in his status. Siberian, please respond. It's not desperate- he has ignored his headset before- but there is worry in that voice. And he will ignore it now as he has ignored it before, because he doesn't want to worry Omi and he doesn't want Omi to come looking—

"Ken, answer me. Now."

Ken closes his eyes against the voice he cannot ignore, closes his eyes as if that will make Youji stop trying to reach him. But it won't and he knows that, because Youji doesn't stop once he sets his mind on something.

Ken doesn't regret his life. His decisions, his actions, his mistakes- he doesn't regret them, doesn't agonize over them, isn't ashamed about the course he has taken. He doesn't regret the lives he takes- they are, after all, wicked, tainted lives. Like his.

Certainly murder is a sin against god. Then again, god has never come down to tell Ken to stop, so certainly he doesn't care all that much.

So he sins. Everyone does. Although Ken is willing to bet he sins a little more than the average Catholic, devout or not.

But he does not regret, and he will not repent, and he will never want forgiveness for his actions- not from god, at least. Maybe from the orphans he has created, the widows, the fathers and mothers whose children he has taken away (because everyone has parents, it's a biological curse); maybe from them, he will want forgiveness. But not from god. And he'll never get it, he knows that.

But he still does not regret. To regret the path he took, whether it was forced upon him or of his own making, would be to regret where he is now.

And it's not just that they have helped people- because they do help people, like those kidnapped children and all those girls with the sports drink, and he reminds himself of this on particularly distant nights when he's covered in blood that won't just come off in the sink and his fists hurt from being clenched for so long.

Ken knows that his life was ruined, that he could have had (did have, for a while) fame, and money, and friendship, and love- not that he doesn't have all those things now; the way people who have something to hide shudder when they hear the name Weiss, the money from the targets they take out, the close bonds with his teammates- but Ken could have had a life in the light, in the warmth of the day. He accepts that, understands it, but he doesn't regret it.

Because he could have lived that life in the light and never have experienced the contentment he knows now. The contentment he feels every time he makes Omi smile, every time the business in the shop is slow and the four of them just sit around in silence, enjoying the sunlight and each other's company, every time Youji presses his mouth against just the right spot on Ken's neck.

Ken thinks these things through on cold nights, when it's not night and not morning, but some strange, ethereal plane of time, thinks them through and always arrives at the same conclusion. He has no regrets. And he closes his eyes and listens to Youji's breathing and tries to convince himself he's right.

Ken brings the headset up so that he can speak into the microphone, wincing at the slowly numbing pain in his chest as he struggles to keep breathing.

"Hey Youji," he says, and he is already out of breath. "You guys leave. I'll catch up." But he can't hide the gasps between every other word, the way his chest wheezes every time he breathes in.

"Siberian. Where are you?" Aya's voice is made even harsher by the headset, and Ken wants to laugh again. How funny dying is. Siberian's gone and screwed up another mission.

"Lost." Ken breaks off, coughing, blood flying out in more than a fine mist this time, splattering onto the growing puddles on the floor. It won't be long now.

He can hear the three of them talking now, hushed, and he realizes that they're together, waiting for him. Probably finished by now, outside by the vehicles, ready to go. Omi will have to drive Ken's bike home. Or, he supposes, they can just leave it here, let it get stolen, let it rust. Not like he'll need it anymore.

"Ken, talk to me. Retrace your steps, tell me where to go." It's Youji and the desperation is there now. Ken knows how horrible he must sound over the radio, knows that Youji will have realized by now that Ken is most definitely hurt.

"It's okay." Ken's not sure what he's referring to.

"If it was okay, you wouldn't say that. You'd tell me to shut the hell up so you could figure out where the hell you were." Ken really does laugh this time, but only for a few seconds before his throat thickens up with his own blood and starts another wave of coughing, and the pain is so bad he almost blacks out. He knows there is very little time until the pain and blood loss and shock make him pass out- knows it with the same certainty as he has known everything else. He wishes, strangely, that Crawford was still here, because he is sure that the American would understand this feeling, this knowing. He wants to ask if this is how all of Crawford's life feels.

"Please, Ken. Stop being so stubborn and let me help you." The hushed voices are gone now, Youji has come back into the building. It doesn't matter. He won't get here in time.

"It'll be okay." Ken still isn't sure what he is talking about. Himself? Maybe. Youji? Probably not.

"Don't do this to me, Ken." Panic, now. Interesting, really. Ken has never seen Youji panic.

"Sorry. It's okay." He drops the headset onto his lap; its weight is far too heavy now. Everything is so heavy. He closes his eyes and lets his head hang. He can hear Youji's voice from the headset, but it is so far away. He remembers how green Youji's eyes are when he's smiling at Ken, and how Youji's voice sounds when he's calling him by that stupid nickname. He smiles, and he's tired.

He's so very tired.

The flower shop's bell jingles, and Momoe looks up at the girl who has walked in the door. Another customer not interested in flowers.

"Can I help you?" She asks, her voice soft, and the flowers nod in agreement, the light from the setting sun waiting for answers. The girl looks hesitant, her eyes not meeting Momoe's, her fingers playing idly with the hem of her school uniform shirt. She scuffs one black shoe against the floor.

"Are the boys still not back, grandma?" The girl blushes faintly and Momoe cannot help a sad little smile. This girl will never know the things Momoe knows, she will never see the world Weiss sees, she will never understand that one of her beloved boys died in an abandoned factory with two bullets through his chest.

"No, I'm sorry." She doesn't promise the girl anything, because she can't. She could say that she's not sure the boys will ever be back, but she doesn't want to be too harsh.

The girl nods her head, hair falling into her face in an almost familiar gesture.

Five minutes later the shop is empty once again.

You could lie on your back and be beaten, or you could put up your fists and fight.
You could try, anyway.
It's hard to be the better man when you forget you're trying.
-Brand New

Author's Notes: Amazingly, when I started writing this weird little thing, my intent was to write a solemn but hopeful Ken-centric piece. And while it remained Ken-centric, it became anything but hopeful. I realize it is dark and has no real point, but I'm okay with that. Comments and constructive criticism welcome.