[team two] shadow

[defiancebyfire.livejournal.com]

new teams, yay~

this is--what it would look like if Kisumai were a team of black market defense squad, of sorts. more installments to follow, i think.

in this particular fic, Kitayama botches a job.


"Are you sure this is a good idea," is the hushed whisper that Kitayama groggily wakes up to. Rays of sunlight refract through the glass windows, and the first thing he can think of is how Nikaido should really work on that indoor voice.

He grunts, and two heads turn in his direction, Nikaido's eyes wide in surprise and Tamamori's narrowed, studying him intently.

"Hi," Kitayama almost winces at the croak that comes out of his mouth. He'd swallow, but his throat is too dry for it. "Water."

Nikaido moves first, pouring him a glass from the pitcher on the bedside table and bringing it to Kitayama. Thankfully, there's a straw as well, and Kitayama doesn't feel as parched after a few sips.

"I'm upping your pain meds dosage," barely audible, Tamamori is still watching them, thumb and forefinger absently adjusting the wheel attached to one of the many IV drips Kitayama is hooked to. "You should rest some more, it's good you can't feel anything just yet."

Cracked ribs. Probably a concussion. Leg broken in two places, and considerable blood loss. His body must be a canvass of bruises if Tamamori isn't even asking permission to increase his drug intake. As Kitayama ponders on this, there are three short raps to his door.

"Um, we'll leave now." It's been years of them together and Nikaido is rarely one to run out of words anymore, but he and Tamamori straighten up at the knock and step out of the room gingerly. He doesn't see who is at the door from his position, and when it inches wider and the person steps in, understanding shows on Kitayama's face.

"Hi," he repeats, hoping for this to be easy. Or for the medicine to work now so he won't have to face the confrontation.

Yokoo has a few choice words for him, but Kitayama doesn't mind much, especially since Yokoo is mothering him at the moment. Again. He putters around the room and picks up bits of paper and plastic wrappers that the rest of the team have left behind during their shifts in watching over Kitayama, mumbling to himself about trash and disinfecting the room and 'if he gets even more sick, I swear to God, these idiots'. Admittedly, Kitayama dozes in and out a few times to the lull of Yokoo's voice.

When he comes to again, Yokoo is sitting on the couch, eyebrows scrunched together and eyes poring over his tablet. Curtains block whatever is left of the sunlight outside, and his room feels much cooler and cleaner than this morning. There's a cup of coffee on the low table, only half-drunk.

"Yokoo-san," Kitayama calls softly, blinking to clear his vision. It's been a while since he was last awake, a few hours at the very least. He'd just wanted to try if his voice still worked, see if the name tasted the same on his lips.

Yokoo looks up, promptly pressing a button on his tablet when he sees Kitayama conscious. There's a soft whirr as the device enters sleep mode, and Yokoo has already stood up, pouring him some water and pressing the cup gently to Kitayama's lips. No straw this time, unfortunately.

"Hello," Kitayama tries again after he's done drinking, wondering how long he's been out of commission.

"You should have tea, and maybe some porridge. In a bit. I'll heat it up for you."

Yokoo turns to move to the kitchenette, stopping when he catches Kitayama's fist clenching in the corner of his eye.

"Don't be mad, Watta," Kitayama tests the endearment, hand softly catching at the sleeve of Yokoo's white coat. If anyone should understand how sorry Kitayama is, it should be Yokoo.

"I'm not very happy right now. But you already know that. And," Yokoo pauses, releasing a deep breath like the entire world was made up of idiots and why were they making his life so infinitely hard. His thumb--callous and gentle at the same time, the same healing hands that they'd known almost as long as their team had existed; Yokoo's hands that have refused to touch any kind of weapon in years--traces small circles on Kitayama's hand. "That's never stopped you any of those times before. I've learned to stop expecting you to be careful."

Ouch. To be fair, Kitayama had deserved that on most days. Only this time, he sincerely had not thought the recon mission would be a trap. Maybe Tamamori was right and he was silently harboring a death wish.

Still, some detached part of Kitayama wants to hear how the job had gone after he'd been shot, but he can always ask Nikaido during his next visit. He figures Yokoo wouldn't appreciate talking about it, so he tries for a change of topic.

"On a scale of one to meteoric level, how pissed is--"

"Very." Yokoo doesn't let him finish the question, pursing his lips at the answer. "Probably feels the same toward me, especially since I had to make the call."

Kitayama turns his head away, having the decency to look guilty. "He picked me up?"

Yokoo barely nods his assent. "I was worried he'd be too late. It took almost a whole day to find you." This time.

"Sorry, Yokoo-san," Kitayama tries again; he knows how much Yokoo hates having casualties during a mission, knows the crippling emotion of knowing someone important to you about to meet with death and being unable to do anything to stop it.

For a moment, Yokoo looks like he's about to be angry. Kitayama knows that look well, though--it's worry, with a little touch of helplessness and exhaustion. His fingers grip a bit tighter, then soothes at Kitayama's hand again. "You've been here three days. Going on four, without even so much as a twitch." He hasn't been here at all, goes unsaid between the two of them.

"Wow," is all he can answer with. Kitayama didn't think it was possible for someone to be angry at him that much.

There is the tiniest hint of a smile on Yokoo's mouth as his other hand fiddles with the analgesic level wheel. "My only consolation was knowing that you were dreaming while you slept. You still have to tell me if you had good dreams, though."

He starts to laugh but cuts off halfway, his ribs hurting from the exertion. Fuck. Kitayama is about to mumble his thanks for the painkillers when the little phone on the front pocket of Yokoo's coat flashes, blue and red and orange; he's being called back to the laboratory. Kitayama can see the reluctance on the doctor's eyes, so he lets go and smiles lopsidedly at Yokoo. "Go. Before they have your head on a plate, too."

The ghost of lips touch his temple and Kitayama closes his eyes, the medicine taking its effect rather quickly. "Shadow," Yokoo says, lips still pressed to his forehead, and Kitayama nods, acknowledging the name. It will be a long way to recovery--definitely a lot of shut down time involved, he thinks to himself as Yokoo picks up his tablet to slip inside his coat. Silence and sleep envelope Kitayama, the lights in the room dim and the door closed gently.

He'll worry about the job and think of how to grovel for forgiveness later. For now, he is finally home.


yomimashou, you're up!