Title: Home (Is Where the Heart Is)
Series: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Pairing: 8059 (as per usual...)
Rating: NC-17 in the 3rd part
Notes: written for
shaggievara in the
La Consorteria fic exchange. Took me FAR longer than it should have to pound this out...but then again, it is 14720 words (sans HTML), so I think I have a good excuse. Now it's time to work on the OTHER little scheme I've cooked up. It's going to be good. It's gonna be big (maybe even multi-part - my first one in a looong time). So there's another reason I got distracted from writing this.
Home (Is Where The Heart Is)
Part I. My Bite is Worse Than My Bark (Gokudera's Problems)
"So," Yamamoto asked once they were outside, "what do you think?"
Their breath puffed out in clouds in front of them, materializing in the chilly air only to wisp away in the next second. White mountains rose a distance away from the brick buildings and famous buildings. Their feet clattered on the cobblestones as they wore down another pencil-thin alley towards the parking lot. Further off, Gokudera could hear the sound of sudden laughter and a smattering of Italian ringing through the arches and open courtyards of passing houses.
Yamamoto was warm where they accidentally bumped shoulders together, the sensation lingering irrationally in his head like some niggling pebble plopped unthinkingly into the pond of his mind. Damn the grinning, freezing lug anyway (if his red ears were any indication), making him think things like He touched me, just like that and He's not afraid. To take his mind off the distraction, Gokudera answered the question as a way of not thinking about it, except the endearing smile that spread with his huffy reply plucked him so easily, every time.
"Don't know. I liked the windows that faced out over the city. Didn't like the size of the kitchen, who knows who's going to be working in there. Not to mention it's on the third floor, which means if one of my sister's creations come sizzling through the ceiling, I'm going to be liable."
"How about location?"
"Barely squeezed on our side of Via Bonaparte." A pause. "Didn't you think that agent looked a little familiar?"
A laugh. Gokudera still frowned at the noise, hunching deeper into his coat as if the Yamamoto's careless happy-vibes could slide off of him that way. "You find familiar faces in the strangest places. Does it have enough room for all your tinkering?"
Gokudera considered. "No," he muttered reluctantly. "I still need more. But choices are starting to run dry, there's just nothing the size I need in all of Europe unless I buy two units or build it myself."
Neither was impossible, both of them knew that. Though he'd have to dig deep into his pocket for the former, it could be done. And Hibari knew people who could build something appropriate from his experience with the Namimori hideout, despite that kind of information costing a bit when it wasn't directly used for the Famiglia. Then again, over the years they all tended to owe each other with no intention of collecting existing debts, however grudgingly they did it. As a Guardian, there were only six other people could you wholeheartedly trust in the entire world, after all.
"That's it for today, though," he added as their ride came into sight. "I'm going to worry about all of this the next free day I have off."
He'd thrown it out there accidentally, but instantly he was mentally backpedaling at the hot little flash of interest that darted across Yamamoto's face. Gokudera felt something warm and fuzzy plummet down to his stomach even as his mind was rapidly roping off the area labelled People Gokudera Swore Wouldn't Get Too Close to Him But Did Anyway with neon yellow caution tape. It wasn't a secret, not after this long, he just thought Yamamoto would've gotten impatient already, maybe spoiling for a fuck from him or from someone else. But whenever he thought it was going hit that climax, the swordsman always backed down, chastened from whatever inner voice of restraint constantly held him back. And he'd never heard of anyone hooking up with the idiot, though he was absolutely, certifiably qualified enough to catch someone who wouldn't mind having a mafia assassin for a boyfriend.
He glanced over to make sure, and there it was, that traitorous little spark in his partner's face that told him he'd fallen for the unintentional bait. "When is your next day off?," the swordsman asked.
"Wednesday. Two weeks from now." At the other Guardian's ill-concealed eagerness, he added, "Can you drive?," just to reaffirm the distance between them.
The spark dimmed, but only a bit. "Sure."
As Yamamoto tossed him his helmet (green and black and white zebra patterns, swirling chaotic and uncontrolled, chipped in the back where a chase in Verona had shaved a little too close for comfort), Gokudera reflected on the unmoving set of circumstances they were at. He knew his partner was like a dog when it came to things he wanted, in the way his jaw clamped down and never let go until it gave way or he died trying. But seriously, this stalemate had gone on for so long that it was going stale in itself...not that he was helping matters.
It wasn't in Yamamoto's nature to want impossible things, he knew. Usually he gave so much that people wanted to repay him right away, and did so by buying little things, doing menial tasks, paving the way so the swordsman could swing his sword and knock down enemies of the family like so many bowling pins. Gokudera knew that feeling too, it didn't take a bullet these days like it did the first time. But he held himself back; Yamamoto could take care of himself, no matter how much other people wanted to do it for him.
What made him think he was qualified to take care of someone else, anyway? The bomber could barely mind himself.
The motorcycle rumbled to life - a much better model than the first one Yamamoto had gotten way back in high school, paid for with his own money, the one the three of them had worked on all summer and taken that crazy three-man ride through Namimori on - and Gokudera detached himself emotionally as he swung his leg over behind the driver. Part of him suspected Yamamoto bought this vehicle just so he would have Gokudera regularly pressed up behind him, hanging on for dear life as he wheeled around those streetcorners like a pro. The other part of him, the part that sided with Yamamoto when Tsuna objected to this being his main means of transportation, rationalized that Yamamoto just really liked motorcycles.
It was kind of the perfect vehicle for his partner, really. Dangerous to ride and easy to park anywhere.
They were speeding through the city streets, the sun barely visible above the spires of the Duomo, the wind playing frenzied catch with coat hems, loose scarves, pantlegs. Looking forward, Gokudera could see his breath collecting misting the shoulder of Yamamoto's leather coat, the other's warm waist clutched securely between his arms. When Yamamoto had first gotten the motorcycle, Gokudera had complained that there was no space for extra baggage, and it would be damned cold riding it in winter. But he understood in time too, the joy of flying so close to the ground with nothing but the roar of the motor under him and the blue sky yawning above him, far too vast for him to envelope with his hands. It wasn't freedom, not by a longshot - but it was the closest illusion he had, tied up in negotiations or in paperwork as he was these days.
And then again his thoughts turned to his partner. He suspected Yamamoto was really more observant than he looked, because he never needed urging to hustle Gokudera on his bike for wherever they needed to go. The damn bastard always knew what to do, what was right by his family, and he always stuck to it. It was a sixth sense that never seemed to bother him morally as it did Gokudera - but then again, their responsibilities had always been different.
But never that apart, or that dissimilar. It was just the way they grew up, the way things shaped out to be, that somehow Yamamoto had resolved to make the Famiglia and Gokudera his entire world. The swordsman knew both of those things intimately like his own bones, like his own own attacks, though both were alive in completely different ways. Sometimes Gokudera entertained the idea of what might happen if those two warred against each other, loyalty to the family versus loyalty to his partner - but he always shied away from imagining the answer, because he was never sure which one he wanted it to be. The younger Yamamoto would've said There's always a way with a grin fit to burst, but for all the swordsman's optimistic heart Gokudera couldn't be sure if he'd say the same now.
They slowed in front of a nondescript mansion in the yuppie part of town, Yamamoto pressing the back of his gloved hand against the attribute censor in front of the garage door. Once inside, they parked and the swordsman shook out his hair like a wet dog, a razor-sharp grin on his face. Really likes motorcycles, Gokudera thought wryly as he ran a hand through his own hair. It must be the reckless way he threw himself headfirst into things that made him the only partner Gokudera had tolerated for so long. It could also be that Yamamoto always took his lead or took a hint when things got personal - which they often did, as the Vongola chair's right-hand man.
That was the trust he was talking about, the one that bound the Guardians together after years of laughing and bleeding together, back-to-back and face-to-face. Gokudera could say without a doubt now, after thirteen years, he trusted Yamamoto like his own hand when it came to the job. It was how much he trusted the other with the other stuff, the gray touchy-feely emotional crap, that remained stalwartly avoided and therefore dangerously vague.
Funny how while other people wanted to take care of Yamamoto, he took care of Gokudera. And he did a pretty good job of it, even if Gokudera would eat his own dynamite before he said so.
The bomber glared at a passing guard, who quailed under the full force of the mansion's Chief of Staff's wrath. It was really a nice house, connected to other houses in the area by ways of underground tunnels (not that they hadn't gotten enough of that in the last ten years while they were still stationed at Namimori), they'd fixed it up as a Guardians-only project, and did pretty well between Hibari's impeccable sense of what not to tear down and Gokudera's comprehensive research on what was always in fashion when it came to interior design. Even now he felt a little mollified when he saw the well-swept corners around the carpets and the hidden shoe rack; this was a structure meant for meetings rather than personal space, and it showed in every inch.
"Are you going to straight to the room?," Yamamoto asked as they mounted the stairs, automatically adjusting his tie. This was where visitors came first, and first impressions always stuck. Similarly, that was the reason Gokudera hadn't pulled out a cigarette yet.
But his hands sure itched for one; he bunched them in his coat pocket, feeling the cool metal of his lighter warm to the touch. He shook his head, distracted now that he was so close to... to what, exactly? Giving up another corner of his already blackened, twisted, cheese-holey stone heart?
"Are you?" He looked Yamamoto up and down once just to get the point across; that leather motorcycle jacket definitely wasn't businessman material. "Got to see the 10th first, see you at the meeting." And with that abrupt dismissal of the other's presence, he turned the corner towards the main office, one hand on the strap of his backpack. There was a limit for everything, he knew, and he was rapidly approaching his. It was a good thing that Yamamoto always knew when to back off, because if he had to be truthful about it, today's house-hunting was really all a distraction for what was about to come, hidden in there between all of his notes about the lighting and necessary improvements.
Right now, though, he could feel more than see Yamamoto's sharp eyes following his movements as if he could see Gokudera through walls. The pad of his shoes echoed as he walked stiffly towards the nondescript door that he'd entered so many times, as did his own heartbeat. The sound was irregular and out of sync; he clenched his teeth together, steeled himself, and opened the door, pushing thoughts of his mother-hennish partner out of his head.
Instant chaos. Papers flew at him from all sides; in the past he would have just thrown out a dynamite, and the sound would usually convince people to stop arguing and just calm the fuck down with their hands over their head, but this was the 10th's office, and nine times out of ten it was impossible to navigate through anyways. Through the windstorm of documents - Gokudera caught one and read the title, when did people start consulting the 10th for the best quality screwdrivers? - he perceived shouting, one side definitely the 10th's frantic pleas and the other side -
"This one!" A hand reached up, visible over the slowing tornado of white, clutching at a photograph. "This one is definitely a keeper, Tsuna!"
"Dad no, Marianne doesn't need to see that I kissed her husband when I was drunk give it back!" Gokudera watched the scene unfold in front of him, distractedly amused, hand still tight around his backpack. "I mean it Sawada Iemitsu, give it back!"
"Ooh, you called your poor, long-estranged father by his real name -"
Tsuna jumped, trying fruitlessly to jerk the picture out of his Advisor's hands. "Dad!," he shouted, completely exasperated and a touch resigned.
Being descended from a family of people-readers certainly had its perks, because Sawada Iemitsu picked up on that little hint quickly, sliding the photo into the album they were undoubtedly going to give to Dino next month for his wedding. "Aha! There we are," the album slammed closed and then like magic, hid itself somewhere on the Outside Advisor's person. "It's alright, you've got doubles of that one - oh hello, Gokudera-kun."
Gokudera picked his way carefully through the papers, flushing under the combined curious looks the two Sawadas were giving him. "10th," he began, then felt the words dry up in his mouth. Finally standing in front of the desk, he looked first from father to son, finding his own boss' eyes easier to look into. The 10th was really amazing sometimes; sensing the bomber's hesitance, he wordlessly offered Gokudera his own cup of cold coffee. Gokudera drank it in one breath and grimaced, feeling the bitter liquid bolster him. "Thank you, 10th."
The father edged crablike towards the side door, face set speculatively as his eyes darted from son to Guardian. "I'll just let myself out here, then -"
"No," Gokudera was shocked to find he'd interrupted his boss' father, he'd just blurted out the word like a child, "no, Sawada-san, please stay."
As the two continued to stare, baffled at what he was getting at, he slowly slid the backpack off his back. He propped a corner of it against the table to peer inside, knowing the thing he was looking for was in the back of everything else, right where he left it. The sun was shining from the other side of the window; the elongated shadows of the two Sawadas twisted so they were looking at each other, Gokudera could almost see the apprehension there, before he pulled the black folder out, heart pounding like a rabbit's in his chest, eyes unable to stray away from the black smoothness of the paper in front of him, broken by only a name in white...
"I have a request," he rasped, and to his embarrassment he found his voice squeaked like it hadn't since he was a teenager. "I mean, I have a suggestion, 10th." That much was steady.
The 10th boss of the Vongola family, standing calmly behind his rosewood desk, had completely lost his joviality from scant moments before. Gokudera felt those eyes flicker over his face, his posture, then down to his hands where they were gripping the folder firmly. He offered it forward, and Tsuna took it. He flicked it open with one last look at Gokudera's stormy eyes, and shifted so his father could read over his shoulder.
He hadn't gone three lines when an answer came loud and clear from the Sawada Iemitsu, Outside Advisor. "No," the word rang through the room like a crackle of thunder. There was only the faintest hint in the crinkled corners of those eyes of someone who was more than an objective third-party, someone who might have invested more than just money to a mafia family. Gokudera watched as the other man stiffened to glare straight at him, brows furrowed, the entire story laid out like a completed puzzle for him to see. The bomber wondered if he could ever become so coldly bipartisan, able to state a life-altering declaration so boldly and so without hesitation.
And yet, No was actually the humanitarian way out.
Gokudera hadn't moved, except to shift his gaze to his boss. Sawada Tsunayoshi, Vongola boss, was skimming the rest of the first page with downturned lips, turning the situation over in his head. Suddenly Gokudera wanted to blurt out Sorry too, because this was nothing he should ever ask of his boss, much less one as close to him as the 10th. At the end of the page, Tsuna flipped briefly through the rest of the scanty contents, and then stared down at the open folder. The bomber met Sawada Iemitsu's eyes again almost hesitantly. The father wasn't glaring any longer, but if anything, that disapproval was still there, simmering slowly in that set of downturned lips.
"I still say no," the Outside Advisor repeated stubbornly after a minute of inner debate. "While della Ricci has been a pain for the past five years, it isn't to say there might have been some...outside help in that." Iemitsu's eyes flickered to Gokudera again, but the look wasn't calculating nor condemning, simply a statement of fact. Gokudera knew immediately that he'd been found out, and what had he been smoking when he thought he could fool this man? "But he hasn't outright betrayed the Famiglia yet, even if we know it will happen in the near future. The Vongola family has never been one to strike first, and his clout will be nothing like the one we will counter with. We can weather della Ricci."
The advice was sound, Gokudera had to admit. He knew the situation better than all of them, he'd been following it since he entered the family. "I have information where he will be on Thursday, at noon." He was relieved to find that his voice was steady, growing chillier as he spoke the facts. "It is confirmed information. And despite the fact he has taken no stance nor act against us, he is not a friend to us any longer." He tipped his chin up, almost defiantly. Yes, he wasn't on the level of Sawada Iemitsu yet, but he knew what he was talking about when he came to his own Famiglia, for sure.
"We can take whatever della Ricci throws at us." At least Sawada Iemitsu hadn't put a hand on his son's shoulder; that would have been too patronizing, and too friendly in a tense negotiation such as this.
"Our family can always use less casualties, especially with the circus the Millefiore'll cook up for us a year from now."
"There is no proof of that."
Despite himself, Gokudera stiffened at that. "What do you mean no proof?," he demanded, voice rising. "I am proof! My partner is proof, my associates are proof, your son is proof!" And here he gritted his jaw, because the truth always hurt the most, that was what he learned in the past nine years.
The truth always hurts the most. He shook his head; why was he thinking of that idiot now?
The 10th held up his hands placatingly, sensing a conflict about to blow. Instantly both backed down, staring at the 10th boss, who in turn was still staring down at the picture in the folder. It wasn't a very good picture - della Ricci wasn't the skinniest man around, and the angle it was taken just made him look wider. A cigarillo hung from two fingers as he fixed his hair with the other hand. His suit was immaculate, and expensive, his shoes cleanly polished. The photograph was clear to the point where Gokudera could see that the man's fingernails were clean; he should know, he picked the picture out from all the others.
Abrupt anger flared in him when That's just like me surfaced in his head.
The 10th gave a sigh, pinched his brow like he did when he was really stressed and had no idea what to do and didn't want to show it, and then asked haltingly, "Gokudera-kun, do you - do you really want this?"
"Yes," he answered without hesitation. At first he thought he might have answered too quickly, with the 10th's watchful eye on him, but then the man closed the black folder and slid it into his The Answer is Probably Yes - Tomorrow pile. Gokudera noted the place where it was put automatically; it was neither too far into the stack that the 10th would be too tired to read it, nor too early so that Tsuna might change his mind.
His boss' eyes were still on him, narrowed in thought. Only now did the Outside Advisor's hand come down on his son's shoulder, face still sober and troubled, wordlessly asking for reconsideration. The 10th's face was set, though, thoughtful but sure. Tsuna always trusted his Guardians implicitly - and the favor was always, always repaid in kind.
The tense moment abruptly dropped, warming up a couple of degrees from business back to strained casual as the Vongola 10th chair began to gather materials for the meeting down the hall. His father absently began to do the same with the much-smaller pile of documents in his mailbox on the end of the 10th's desk, turning subtly away from his son. Gokudera shifted uncomfortably - it wasn't something he usually asked of this particular pair of father and son, and he would have avoided it if he decided not to suggest preemptive measures. It was just too awkward, though with this hit, he probably wouldn't ever ask the 10th for a favor like this ever again. He wouldn't need to, most likely.
As the 10th tucked his laptop into his bag, he asked in a murmur, "This is one of your side projects, Gokudera-kun?" He sounded just a tad admonishing, so that Gokudera knew better than to say anything contrary than the bare facts.
"Y-yes, 10th." In three years, that tone's going to be a chilly as his father's, Gokudera thought with a bit of apprehension and a bit more pride. "I've been tracking della Ricci since I joined the Vongola family."
Tsuna nodded at his earnestness. "This is a personal matter to you, yes?" His Italian was still a little bit off, but they weren't in high school any longer, the 10th boss of the Vongola family didn't have to stand through corrections on verbal tenses anymore as long as he got the gist of things. And that's a pity, Gokudera thought with a twinge of regret, he's not a child anymore. None of us are.
"Yes, 10th."
Then the younger Sawada looked at him expressionlessly and asked, "Will you be carrying this assignment out yourself?"
Gokudera thought briefly to other countries where hits were still carried out without guns, without middle-range weapons, but with knives so the target would know exactly who had gotten their revenge. "No," he answered, voice still amazingly steady, "I thought it would be best if this couldn't be tracked back to the family itself."
The 10th nodded, face still absently considering even while Gokudera knew the moralistic, non-mafia born side of him was probably rebelling with all of his might. "I will ask someone appropriate," came the reply. The boss really looked at him then, stared deep inside of him, but he didn't move, didn't take it back. He didn't want to take it back.
As if reading his thoughts, Tsuna echoed again with a hint of incredulity, "You really want this."
"Yes, 10th."
He could be a dog too, when it came to the things he wanted.
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A few took note of Sawada Iemitsu when they all sat down in their regular places in the lounge connected to one of the conference rooms. Guardian and close family member meetings never happened in those unfeeling places, they all gathered here where they could be comfortable and give ideas frankly and without hesitation. The 10th boss always told them not to hold back on comments, thoughts, suspicions, because even the littlest piece of information could turn any predictable situation for a loop.
Gokudera took his seat on the loveseat next to his partner, absently throttling the little voice in his head that giddily told him Yamamoto's hip was touching his. Their little party of three was the last to arrive; he supposed Yamamoto must've turned on the deathglare to save a place for him to sit. He was grateful, of course; usually by this time he had to lean against the wall or make do with an armrest - but he was distracted, there were just other things on his mind. Still, he didn't even have to think to squeeze his partner's arm just below the elbow, just to tell him thanks.
He leaned over, chewing around a cigarette as he spoke. "You're still not in proper attire, signor."
Yamamoto's lips curved upwards, unabashed in the least. "It's black," he offered shamelessly. Gokudera shook his head and tried his hardest not to smile back.
The meeting started as it usually did, with the 10th taking his seat on the green armchair that was so hard someone had probably broken their ass sitting on it before. Gokudera leaned back with a sigh, listening quietly as he lit another cigarette: "Everyone's here, so let's begin. Let's also make this quick, I know a couple of you are just itching to get back on your assignments." The Vongola boss gave a crooked smile. "Far be it for me to keep you from...your necessary inputs to the family."
Gokudera let his eyes wander, trusting his ears to do the real listening. Ryohei was standing against the wall, relaxed even with his hair shorn strangely on one side - did he get into a bar fight or something? And wonder of wonders, Hibari was here, feeding his bird a piece of cracker and not paying the slightest attention to what the 10th was saying. Basil and Fuuta were the only ones who seemed to taking notes on what the 10th was saying, though the information probably wasn't new to them either. Lambo, still too inexperienced to make a difference, attempted to stifle a yawn and instead hit his head against the lamp. Even Gokudera and Yamamoto turned to stare at the rattle of the lampshade; the culprit turned beet-red and excused himself hastily to go the bathroom, undoubtedly repeating his favorite motto in his head.
Yamamoto must have seen the half-fond, half-mocking smile on Gokudera's face, because he leaned in close and whispered, "Still useless?"
The bomber shook his head, smile still playing reluctantly at the edge of his lips. "Give him a couple of years, and he'll be as fine of an operative as we'll ever have," he murmured back.
Yamamoto just grinned at that, and instantly Gokudera felt like the dumb old softie he was. He remembered those days when he used to chase that broccoli cow around until he fell down and cried, he remembered the first time the kid got his hair straightened and was forced to wear a mini-monkey suit for some function at the country villa. He remembered when Lambo almost killed himself when he rammed his horns into a telephone pole by mistake. They were all clumsy at that age, they'd all almost gotten themselves killed back then. Not all foolishness turned to grace when a person entered the real world - but the potential was there for them to develop in strength, grow in heart.
He snorted around his cigarette. What heart? Yamamoto's been waiting for ages already. Really now, he couldn't even take his own advice.
The 10th was talking quite seriously about the new list of target the Millefiore had not-so-secretly left everywhere for the Vongola to find. Everybody took a copy from the coffee table without comment, and began memorizing it on the spot. Gokudera frowned through the names, photographic mind kicking in, picking out the ones he had to warn, and the ones that would have to go into hiding immediately. His brow furrowed even more when he saw certain names missing - but he was sure he left the compounded list on the 10th's desk yesterday morning. So maybe there was new information? Certainly Hibari had just returned from Japan -
"Is that all? Thank you for your time, then." The Vongola boss rubbed at the wrinkled between his eyebrows, then straightened to talk to his father. Gokudera got up too, brain still on other matters, so that when Yamamoto pulled lightly to turn him around and peer into his face, he didn't protest, except give a little half-annoyed look and stand there like a stone.
"Was there anything you needed to ask Hibari?," the swordsman prompted.
"No," Gokudera answered confusedly, and then actually thought about it. "Oh," he said at last, and left to catch the Cloud Guardian before he left the building completely.
The swordsman followed his partner out, watching his back as he always did.
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Part II. Three Bags Full (Yamamoto's Pain)
He was really off his game today.
First he'd spilled the tea he'd bought at the neighborhood cafe and gotten a really weird look from the server, and then the bike he'd rented had fallen into a ditch. Ironically, he'd enlisted the help of two policemen to pull it out. Then he almost got run over by a train because he was still furiously trying to remember if he said anything out of place to the policemen that might lead them to believe he wasn't anything but a lost Japanese guy with a smattering of Italian under his belt...then again, it wasn't anything he couldn't ever buy himself out of. And then of course, there was the squirrel that kept on throwing acorn shells at his head, breaking his thought with a neverending string of chattering. In his spare time, he imagined it was saying things like Stupid dumbfuck Asian dude, what the blazes is he doing in my tree? and He's packing a gun but I want more acorns!.
This job was making his short-tempered, without really a reason why. He figured it was about time he hit up the Varia residence for a nice thrashing, courtesy of the only one-handed silver-haired Sword Emperor in the world. A beating by Squalo would buck him up nicely; he was overdue for a challenge, anyway. Really, it seemed the higher his partner climbed in mafia politics, the more boring his assignments got.
One beautiful set of inverse proportions.
He also found himself idly daydreaming as he took stock of guard positions, shift changes, personnel. He hacked into the computer mainframe by way of one of Gokudera's ingenius black boxes, a shifty piece of equipment that had all the smooth elegance its creator didn't exhibit. All Yamamoto had to do was plug it into a USB port and he could find everything from kitchen inventory to radiation levels in the family's priceless basement museum. He bought a tennis bag to store Kintoki in when time came to kick that exit strategy into gear, and dark but unassuming clothes for the night he had to sneak in. He did lots of things in two-and-a-half days.
Did it in a haze, he thought to himself. It was always like this when he was by himself on assignments. It wasn't that things didn't get done - it was just afterwards, he couldn't really quite remember what he'd spent his time doing, as if the memories belonged to someone else or he'd dreamed the whole thing up and he was going to wake up with his arms around one of the sofa pillows in Tsuna's office.
"I'm asking this of you as Sicario Milan. You understand?"
Oh, he understood perfectly. These past few days really had been more of a dream than usual, though.
He pulled the black sweatshirt over his head, along with a pair of black pants. Sneakers were replaced by black split-toe slippers, muffled for sound by the thin layer of cotton padding he'd sewn onto the bottom. Kintoki went on next, slung diagonally across his chest, and then he checked to make sure his hair was all under the rim of his baseball cap. Finally, he took out a little jar of foundation and dabbled it on his chin, covering up the telltale scar.
He was ready. He looked over his vantage point on the hill, taking note of the turrets and various security guards lining the surround, and then took a deep breath. The sun was setting in a yellow-orange-red mass behind the mountains - but the light shining through the unsnowed parts of the hills was the exact color of Gokudera's eyes.
Uncharacteristically for such a serious moment, he grinned at his own foolishless. Congratulations, you managed to not think about Gokudera for all of ten minutes.
He liked to tell himself (in what passed for sarcasm, according to his partner) that it totally wasn't on purpose, and things just happened to turn out this way, but the more he said it the more he felt there was some hand pushing him in that direction. Some vicious, mocking god, maybe. If there wasn't divine influence involved, then did it mean he was special? Or did it mean Gokudera was special? Either way, it was a nice kind of pain, he supposed. Better than still aimlessly wandering around, looking for someone to spend the rest of his life with. Now if only Gokudera would see it the same way...but he needed concentration on his task, not rehashing of a subject he'd already gone over in his head a million times.
Quietly he made his way down the slope to a door in the back of the compound. A three-second jiggle with the lock, and then it opened soundlessly on the hinges he oiled this morning. He slipped inside, closed it, and then ghosted through the rosebushes, towards the door on top of the stairs. The honey-golden light spilling onto the patio reminded him of so many things, so many good memories, none of them applicable right now. He shouldn't even be thinking of those things, because they were giving him a heartache, on top of being completely irrelevant to what he was doing at the moment.
A door slammed down the hall and he flattened himself against the wall. After the footsteps had disappeared down an adjoining corridor, he scooted sideways into a doorway. Without looking, he let himself in.
First mistake, Sicario Milan might've murmured to himself if he'd actually existed. Seven guards, two exits. The one in the right-hand wall probably led to where he'd been heading in the first place. One door off - big difference, some might say. But now he had to kill more people than necessary, and that was really a shame, because he was pretty sure they enjoyed being alive as much as he did.
He moved first, clipping the first one in the jaw, then crashing him noisily into the little table where the unlucky seven had been playing poker earlier. Coins and trinkets clattered to the ground as everyone who'd been sitting stood at unison. Someone shouted something in rapid Italian, and someone else fired. Yamamoto dodged with the ease of long habit, and pulled his pistol point-blank in the second man's chest. In the same motion he kicked the next one so he toppled with a crash into a crate, and pumped two bullets into that one's body. A flash of gold caught his cheek and he swerved, kicking the table into the air in one motion. Then he spun, caught the fourth in the side of his neck with his heel. He went down with his neck wildly askew like a bent pipe. The swordsman reloaded.
The last three fired, spread out around him. Yamamoto twisted, feeling something bury itself into the duffel in his back, and then he swung the tennis bag like a mace and caught the fifth man in the stomach. He choked, stumbling back, just enough time for the swordsman to slide into position. Yamamoto's knife slashed lightly, just once, and flesh split like old stitches under his hand. A liquid gurgle later and the man was dead, twitching like the others.
The Rain Guardian surveyed his work calmly. The first man wasn't quite dead, and neither was the one he'd cracked the neck of. Dispassionately he raised his gun and fired twice, and the light went out of two more pairs of eyes. Now for the two still-living ones -
"Who are you?," one shouted in clumsy English, and then switched to Italian. He had no weapon on him, by the way he was grasping fruitlessly at the wall behind him. "What Family are you from?" His partner was weeping as he tried to refill his revolver with shaking hands.
Yamamoto raised his gun again and shot both through the forehead. They fell gracelessly to the ground like well-dressed, stringless puppets. Yamamoto ejected the empty clip and replaced it with a full one. Someone - something - groaned softly behind him, and he shot backwards without looking. The sound stopped, and once again the swordsman did a full circle, making sure everybody was dead, and nobody had run out the door in panic to warn the villa's head of security. He stepped over arms and legs, checking for signs of life still trapped in jugulars and suited chests under his leather-gloved fingers. A shoe had fallen by the wayside and Yamamoto replaced it on its owner's foot without thinking.
Now that the excitement was over, he wondered what Gokudera would think of all this. They were partners, and they'd been on plenty of assignments together, but black hit folders rarely assigned pairs to do the job. Most went to the Varia anyway, who spent more time playing video games and managing their mutual funds these days than they did missions; only when discretion was required were Guardians considered. Sicario Milan came through for Tsuna sometimes, in circumstances where Yamamoto Takeshi could not.
He had a sound excuse for avoiding the subject of Gokudera, he really did. Which made him somewhat hurt and somewhat angry, but more than that, the empty chill in his chest just spread a little farther as he smiled frostily. No big deal, he always told himself when the other abruptly shoved him outside of that little world he lived in. Yamamoto would keep on going. This was the road he'd chosen, after all.
Not bad, he thought to himself as he surveyed the walls and fallen furniture. They wouldn't have that bad of a time cleaning up; there were only a couple of splashes on the wall and maybe the carpet was beyond repair, but wasn't hardwood timelessly classy? Gokudera had told him that when they re-outfitted headquarters a couple of years ago.
In a few weeks, this family would be scattered, and this villa would be sold. Another family would move in, probably one that got a little nudge from the Alliance Families, and life would go on as it always did, with or without the people who had died in the course of one night. He would continue to cater patiently to Gokudera's needs, and Gokudera would continue flirting around the subject like a hyperactive, OCD butterfly on too much caffeine, until someday he would just simply drop and expect Yamamoto to be there to catch him.
Only I might not be, he thought with a blank smile. He tucked his head carefully out the second exit into the library, looking for the target that was...not there. He looked back in the room and realized belatedly why none of the guards had run away; their boss had already been killed, he was the one in the corner with a knife wound to his chest. Funny, he looked thinner than he did in the picture - but still as crisply well-dressed as corpses usually came. Wouldn't need to change clothes for his funeral - though he might've been disappointed he was losing at cards or something before he died.
Just out of curiosity, though, he crept near the lighted desk at the end. A book lay open there - a photo album. The pictures winked glossily up at him, and he was about to turn away from whoever's life he shouldn't be prying into, when a face caught his eye.
Familiar faces in the strangest places.
He picked up the album, slipped it into his bag, and made his way back out of the compound.
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LOL Too large for one post.
So the third part is here.