Part 2 of No Blissful Ignorance
Title: No Blissful Ignorance, part 2
Author/Artist: Amethyst Hunter
Pairing: Ban/Akabane
Fandom: Get Backers
Theme: #2 - “news; letter”
Rating: PG-13 (m/m, language)
Warnings/Spoilers: Semi-heavy canonical references to Akabane’s and Ban’s histories, and manga arcs/characters, all tweaked to suit my purposes.
Notes: The song “Que Sera, Sera” (as sung by Doris Day) is written by Jay Livingston and Ray Evans. No profit or ownership is claimed by me, I’m only using the lyrics in the spirit of good fun.
- Makubex’s Trium Astral Unlocker is a real data entry - you’ll need a good slow-motion pause button to catch it, but if you look carefully on your TV while watching the anime during the IL arc, you can see a very brief flash of it in a corner onscreen.
- The Biblical verse Akabane references at the end is Ecclesiastes 3:1-8 - “To everything there is a season.”
- Ban’s knowledge of the Serpens constellation is courtesy of the Wikipedia entry.
Disclaimer: Don’t own any of the above, the usual blah.
Summary: Akabane and Ban learn of things they’re probably better off not knowing.
--
All it takes is a clipping of security wires, and the cameras that would have recorded his unauthorized entry and the alarms that would have announced it are rendered useless. Akabane slips inside the building as noiselessly as any ghost and locates the visitor’s map directing him to the exhibit he’s most interested in. They’ve changed the layout since last he was here, no doubt to try and purge the public’s memory of the infamous discovery all those years ago. In time, remodeling has done for newer generations what no amount of cleanup could for those who remembered, and the museum has managed to attract steady patron revenues in spite of its notoriety in modern local history.
Anxiety aside, a part of him takes careful note of the renovations. Gouzou Maguruma will find his report interesting later on. As well he should. Akabane saved his life here that night.
The Egyptian wing has been reset, the artifacts rearranged into a visually pleasing display. Surprisingly, they haven’t removed the statuary. Amazing, what a good chemical bath can do. None of the stains are remotely visible.
Akabane goes directly to the largest of these and pauses before it. A part of him expects to feel something, a little tremor of recognition, or perhaps reticence, but nothing comes. Finding himself unsure of the proper conduct to take, he reverts to uttering a soft prayer from his youth, impulsively making the sign of the Christian cross as if in genuflection at an altar.
One could take it as such, considering that this place was his baptism in first blood. He pictures the statue as it was then, form splattered with the ooze of a fresh fight, its offerings lying in crumpled disassembly with their eternal gazes fixed upon their underworld guide. He goes by many names and has many forms, but in this pantheon he is known as Anubis-Anpu, the Watcher of the Night, He who ferries the dead to their final accounting before the Lord of the Great Halls, Asar-Osiris.
Akabane remembers suddenly looking up after cutting down the last enemy, and receiving the distinct impression that the god had been judging him, taking a measured satisfaction from the sacrifice.
Such tithing, however, exacts a price of its own. In stepping into the crossroads and accepting this mantle of escort conferred upon him by Anpu, Akabane has also tacitly agreed that his own life is forfeit, subject to heavier weighing when at last it becomes his turn to cross over and stand before those scales. The prospect neither pleases nor displeases him. It’s all a part of the covenant, after all, and a true professional honors what bargains he makes - especially when those contracts are written in blood.
Akabane comes closer. The statue is more than twice his height, being carved from stone as ancient as the sands from whence it was fashioned. The granite is rough, pitted, its skin having weathered the passage of time with remarkable strength. Anpu’s face was not quite as fortunate, a part at the end of his snout having chipped off so that it appears as if the god is exposing a bemused smile, or perhaps a fanged snarl.
Akabane likes to think that it is both - a gentlemanly acknowledgement of kindred...and a warning to those who would tread foolishly upon the crossroads of the Guardian.
“I suppose it would be a rather presumptuous request at this hour,” he says aloud, gazing up at the inscrutable patron, “but, perchance, might you be kind enough to spare a bit of shelter for a weary traveler?”
Anpu says nothing. He doesn’t need to. With him, what’s often more important is what is not said rather than what is. Akabane bows his head, deferring to the unspoken answer, and takes refuge at the base of the figure as he rests his forehead on his folded arms and ponders his dilemma.
He doesn’t remember dozing off. But he must have. Perhaps he’s just so lost in thought that he barely notices how much time passes, and when a shadow off to the side eventually stirs and approaches him, Akabane resigns himself to the inevitable discovery.
“Had a feeling I’d find you here,” Ban says in a neutral tone. “Nice touch, knocking out those guards with Himiko’s sleep scent. How’d you get her to share?”
Akabane doesn’t look up at him. “I asked her.”
The scowl is evident in Ban’s voice. “How come she’ll grant you favors but not me?”
“I asked her nicely,” Akabane replies, without a trace of scorn.
They fall into silence, until Ban stoops on bended knee in front of him. “I get worried, you know, when I come home and you’re not there like you say you’ll be,” he says quietly. “I think we need - “
“ - to talk,” Akabane finishes, before he realizes that his lover also has something of importance to share. He looks up from beneath the brim of his hat, trying to keep his surprise hidden. “You first,” he says.
“You had anything to eat yet?” Ban asks.
Akabane shakes his head.
“We’ll go downtown.”
“Not there,” Akabane says quietly. “In private. Please?”
After a moment, Ban nods. “We can get something to go.” He looks closer at Akabane and gestures at his hand. The padding of bandages beneath the glove is obvious, even in the dim glow of nightlights on the walls. “That have anything to do with the dead laptop I found in the trash?”
Akabane slowly peels off the glove and unwraps the bandaging. The inside layers are caked with dried scabs of brownish blood. He flexes his hand, the skin marred now only by its starburst scar in the center. Out of habit, he extends his scalpels, fingers curling over slightly in battle reflex, but makes no move to deploy his weapons. He wills them into retreat, and starts a little when Ban gently takes hold of his hand.
“Too bad you can’t kill spam that way. I bet computer kid would read you the riot act for wasting a perfectly good machine,” the other man says with a hint of wry amusement.
The corners of Akabane’s lips twitch, but he resists the smile. Willing his eyes to meet Ban’s, he says softly, “Makubex-kun is the reason for that destroyed laptop.”
Something flickers in Ban’s eyes, but he makes no comment. He squeezes Akabane’s bare hand before letting go and standing up. “We’ll talk about it over a bowl of Paul’s best. Nobody can think on an empty stomach, least of all me.”
--
Not for nothing has Paul Wan acquired his reputation as the perfect confidante. Shopkeepers, much like their bartending brethren, have a talent for coaxing forth even the most stubborn of closed mouths, and then quietly absorbing everything into percolation until such time as information becomes needed. When he sees a subdued Ban and Akabane enter his establishment this late, he silently puts on a fresh pot of coffee and goes into the kitchen to heat up the stove. The tab will just have to wait.
Ban plops on the nearest stool and places their order once Paul returns, while Akabane withdraws his pocketbook from his coat and proffers the required payment. Paul accepts it without his customary wisecrack about Ban’s stinginess and tells them their meals will be ready shortly, then, tacking on as an offhanded note, “I have some work to do in the basement. If you two want to stick around it’s fine. Just let me know when you leave so I can lock up.” He goes to the front door and turns the “open” sign around, now denoting that the Honky Tonk is officially closed for the evening.
Ban waits until the food has been served and Paul has disappeared to the lower storeroom levels before opening up the conversation. He takes an impossibly huge bite of his sandwich and says simultaneously, “I malked mif Makumex tonight. Kid had some innerefting mings to say.”
Akabane tenses, his back stiffening. He sips his spoonful of soup carefully before answering. “What did he tell you?”
Ban swallows his chunk of food. “How far back do you and Babylon City go, Akabane?”
A peculiar numbness takes over Akabane’s insides. He feels quite like the proverbial deer trapped in the blinding glare of an oncoming car’s headlights. “Far enough,” he says in measured tones.
Ban doesn’t seem terribly surprised. “I figured as much,” he says evenly. “Did you know they were using Doctor Jackal as one of their pawns?”
Akabane pushes his soup away; he isn’t hungry any more. He folds his gloved hands in his lap and looks at the counter. “The thought had occurred to me on more than one occasion, yes.” He slips out a scalpel and begins to slowly turn it over in his fingers. “What are you getting at?”
Ban wolfs down the last of his sandwich and starts in on his soup. “Take that umbrella off. This ain’t no friggin’ Wizard of Oz setup. I like being able to see who I’m talking to.”
Akabane lifts his head, eyes narrowing.
Ban growls. “I’m not mad at you, Kuroudo. I just want to know what the hell’s going on.”
“So do I,” Akabane says. But he complies with his lover’s request and takes down his hat, setting it aside.
“Thank you. That’s better,” Ban tells him as he slurps away the last of his soup. “You gonna finish that?”
“You may have it,” Akabane says, nudging his half-eaten bowl towards him, as well as the sandwich sitting untouched on his plate.
Ban doesn’t gulp it down right away. He raises a brow at Akabane. “You sure? It’s good...”
“It’s all right.”
Shrugging, Ban devours the leftovers in short order. “What’d Makubex say to you that’s got you whacking laptops now? You didn’t even give it the badge of dishonor.”
Akabane toys with his knife some more. He feels naked without his hat, so he bows his head, letting his hair hide his face in its shadows. He licks his lips, pausing on the words as he forms them, unsure of how to break the news. “You know about magic, don’t you, Midou-kun?”
The wariness is immediate. “What kind of magic?”
“It has standard as well as arcane uses, actually,” Akabane says. “But I suppose to a layman, it would all seem the same.”
“So spit it out already. Don’t dance around the subject with flowery language. I hate that shit.”
Very well. Akabane sighs. “Blood magic.”
That gets Ban’s undivided attention. He drops the partially-gnawed roll he’d been working on and stares. “What sort of blood magic are we talking about here?”
“Life,” Akabane says, hesitating, “and death.” He waits as he gauges the other’s reaction; Ban’s alert but calm posture lets him know to continue. “In surgery, a lot depends on the patient’s blood. Infections can sicken and kill. Not enough blood available during transfusions, and a patient dies on the operating table from lack of circulation. Too much uncontained and they will bleed to death through open wounds.”
He glances at the scalpel still resting in his fingers. He begins turning it over again. “Yet this endless river is what keeps humans alive. Blood brings renewal through the forming of new cells to take the places of those that die, and it helps to transport harmful materials out of the body by fighting infections.”
“But not all of them,” Ban says. “Some infections are blood-based. And if you’re talking transfusions, you need the right blood type, or the incompatibility can kill too.”
“Yes,” Akabane nods, somewhat reassured to note that his lover’s thoughts are on the same wavelength as his own. “That was one of the reasons the experiment was proposed. Even those that purport to be gods still require modern medicine, after all.”
“Doled out under restrictions, I’m sure,” Ban mutters, thinking of Lower Town’s less than fortunate denizens.
“I had nothing to do with its implementation,” Akabane says, hating the nearly imperceptible note of desperation that sneaks into his voice. Part of him expects to be disbelieved, and he tightens his hand around the scalpel. “It wasn’t even my idea. They used my work, but they didn’t involve me until the actual testing.” His gaze falls momentarily. “That was how we discovered my ability to produce these.” He lifts the scalpel into view.
Ban reaches out, running his fingers over the flat of the shining blade. “I guess that explains the one hundred and eight theory,” he muses.
“The forms come with practice,” Akabane explains softly. “I’m best with blades, as you’ve noticed. But I’m not limited to that template. So long as I have a source material, I can replicate a perfect pattern of anything solvent.”
Ban nods, still eyeing the scalpel thoughtfully. “Computer kid’s been tapping into the Archive again. Much as I admire his brass, he’s asking for it, poking his nose into their party favors. People like that don’t like sharing.” He sighs and rubs his forehead.
“The project was never finished,” Akabane says, his eyes revealing a rare hollowness. “It was supposed to have been canceled after the...after an...accident that took place. But someone decided to keep it active. I don’t know why.” A bitter chord makes his voice tremble a little. “You’d think the successors would have learned from a bloody lesson.”
Ban studies him. “You know the people who were responsible?”
Akabane shakes his head. “Even if they were willing, the original leaders couldn’t tell us anything. They’re dead.” He pauses, and adds flatly, “I killed them. All but one, and that person survived only because she wasn’t there at the time.” He feels a sudden burn in his eyes, and looks away, unwilling to concede to the defeat of tears.
Silence, broken only by the intermittent hum of the shop’s ventilation system, reigns steady for a while. Ban resumes polishing off the remains of food, while Akabane broods over the possible ramifications of his confession. Eventually Ban speaks.
“You think whoever’s mucking with this blood experiment will try to screw with you again?”
“I don’t know. I wouldn’t put it past them at this point.” Akabane puts the single scalpel back in place and clutches his hands together to keep from further fidgeting. “I think Kyouji Kagami knew, or suspected some association.” He forces himself to look at Ban without betraying any sign of emotion. “He asked me if I would consider going back to the City.”
Ban steeples his fingers together in a pyramid as he leans on the counter surface. “Damn meddlesome bar host.”
“I made it quite clear to him,” Akabane says, his tone slipping into frigidity as he clenches one hand around a bundle of half-emerging knives, “that I was no longer interested in any such offer.”
Ban lights up a cigarette and takes a long, easy drag on it, waving his hand to disperse the smoke. They sit in more gloomy silence for a while.
“Let’s not worry about it until something happens,” he says at last. “Till then, there’s not much we can do, is there?”
Akabane looks up in barely concealed surprise. “I thought you’d be more upset,” he says hesitantly.
Ban looks at him. “I don’t like what Jackal does. You know that. I also can’t stand these Brain Trust assholes any more than you do. Whatever happened...I’m sure you had your reasons.” He looks out the window, into the fathomless night. “God knows I had mine...” He breaks off his muttered thought and looks back to Akabane. “What’s the deal with the museum?”
“You haven’t heard the rumors?” Akabane tilts his head in mild curiosity. It’s practically legend among those in the transporting business. “That was where Doctor Jackal first appeared.”
Ban swivels around and sits with his legs propped on the lower bars of Akabane’s seat, one arm resting on the countertop. “I’m game for the story.” He stubs out the dwindled butt in his fingers and lights another.
“Very well.” Akabane combs a lock of hair away from his eyes, tucking it behind his ear. “Gouzou Maguruma and I had known each other for a while, and he invited me to ride with him on several transport runs when I expressed interest in finding new employment. He said if I liked it he would teach me how the transporting business works.”
He shrugs. “It was decent at first, although mostly I just sat and watched. Rather boring, at that. But I was glad enough for the distraction it provided. After the war...after I left Babylon,” he says, voice lowering to a near-whisper briefly before picking up again, “I didn’t want to return to the medical profession.”
Akabane’s eyes drop to his hands again. “Everyone in the business has their own identifying handle that they operate under. Maguruma, as you know of course, is ‘No-Brakes.’ Typically, a transporter doesn’t become listed until after he or she has successfully completed a series of solo runs. It proves to clients that they are dependable on the job.”
“Like gangsters have their ‘made’ men carry out hits in rites of passage,” Ban says.
“Something like that,” Akabane agrees, a hint of a smile in his eyes as he looks at his lover. “Since I had no prior experience under my belt, Gouzou said he would call me ‘the doctor’ because of my background. Hardly anyone uses their real name, you see.”
“In such an esteemed, respectable service like underworld transporting? I can’t imagine why not,” Ban drawls, and they both chuckle over his sarcasm.
“He had an annoying habit of shortening it to ‘Doc’ in those days,” Akabane says, wrinkling his nose.
“’Doc’?” Ban laughs. “I like that!”
“Honestly, Midou-kun. It’s undignified! Do I look like a ‘Doc’ to you?”
“No, you look like an ‘Aka-chan’.” Ban grins rakishly and reaches over to tousle Akabane’s hair. “Or a ‘Bane-tan’.”
“Midou-kun!” The scolding isn’t as harsh as it sounds, for as much as he isn’t keen on being teased out of his blue mood, Akabane can’t help but appreciate his lover’s attempt at comfort. He gives in and offers a small conciliatory smile. “I’d expect that sort of immaturity from Ginji-kun.”
He clears his throat softly as a cue to bring them back to the topic of discussion. “Where was I? Oh yes - one night we were assigned a delivery at the museum. Maguruma told me to wait inside the truck and he would go pick up the item. It was quite a while for him to return, and I got tired of waiting, so I decided to go see what was taking so long.” Akabane’s brows pinch in memory. “As luck would have it, he’d been ambushed inside by a rival transport gang that called themselves the Black Widows.”
“Ahhh,” Ban says. “I think I remember hearing about those guys.” He blows a puff of smoke into a ring and watches it float across the room. Then he snaps his fingers. “Now I know why Ginji was always complaining about ghosts when we went there once!” His eyes shift to Akabane. “Spiritual residue is harder to get rid of than soldered gum.”
“But you haven’t heard the whole story,” Akabane says. “The Widows were upset because they felt that this particular job had been promised to them by the client. That was why their leader had taken Maguruma prisoner. He would have been killed if I hadn’t come to investigate his absence.”
His eyes close momentarily. “I’ll never forget the tension I encountered. I was in a...strange...place, unlike anything I’d ever felt before, and - I remember feeling the blades in my veins for the first time, becoming attuned to them in a way I’d never experienced before.” He opens them and flicks a now-neutral gaze out the front window.
Ban frowns. “How’d you take out a whole group by yourself? I assume back then you were still learning the gist of using scalpels in a non-medical environment.”
Akabane lifts his chin in subtle pride. “I did rather well for a beginner. When we were stationed together Semimaru taught me some basic sparring. It was only a matter of incorporating the use of blades into those maneuvers.”
“Even so, an entire army of yakuza-backed agents? I mean, how many of those guys were there, eight? Ten?”
“Twelve,” Akabane lightly corrects him. “But you are forgetting my unique abilities. They had knives too, but compared with me, they weren’t very good with them.” He takes one of Ban’s hands and traces his fingers. “A common mistake inexperienced knife-fighters make is in using the end of the blade for their attack, and they tend to wield the weapon in long sweeping arcs. But that’s only good for certain circumstances. The side of the knife is often what does the most damage in a fight, and it ought to be handled the way you manipulate your fighting prowess: short, sharp cuts, quickly, like the strike of a snake.”
“You have too much free time on your hands,” Ban mutters.
Akabane ignores the slight. “Medical school teaches students the proper way to hold a scalpel. You need a praying mantis grip,” he says, demonstrating as he unsheathes a knife and presents it. “This technique lets the blade do the work, and you don’t waste precious energy expending unnecessary strength.”
“I guess that makes sense,” Ban says. “In a very twisted, screwed-up alternate dimension sort of way.”
The scalpel retreats neatly with the barest of whispers. “It worked,” Akabane replies with a little shrug. “We got our cargo safely, Maguruma survived, and...I found my new calling.”
“I’m not sure I grasp the name part of it though,” Ban says.
Akabane smiles gently. “The area where the battle took place was the wing of the Egyptian exhibit. They’ve rearranged everything since then. That statue I was sitting by was the very same one featured in the news coverage. They said the carnage done was fit for carrion-eaters.” He reaches up to adjust his hat, remembers he’s not wearing it, and lays his hand over his chest instead. “You know what Anpu’s function is, don’t you?”
“Guardian of the crossroads between life and death, holy embalmer and one of the attendants who measures the heart in the Great Halls of Asar-Osiris, Lord of the Dead,” Ban answers. “But I doubt that jackal ever took to making corpses as opposed to merely wrapping and escorting them.”
“But it has a memorable ring to it, no?” Akabane pauses. “The Js came later, after I’d adapted and refined my technique.”
Ban sighs in resigned amusement. “You need a new hobby, Akabane.”
Akabane just smiles patiently. “I appreciate your concern, Midou-kun. However, I assure you, there’s no need for it. This is the path I chose.”
“I worry about you,” Ban tells him quietly.
Purple eyes grow tender with mist. “I like being worried over by you. But you don’t have to be so concerned over this - “
Ban interrupts. “Yes I do. That’s what you do, when you care about somebody else. I know sometimes you can’t help it - those idiots that hired us for the IL. The others you’ve offed have been bad apples too in one way or another, but most of them probably weren’t past total derangement. In passing that judgment on them, you’re denying them their free will to make their own choices.”
Akabane is confused. “I don’t pass any judgment. It matters not to me how others live, or receive their daily satisfaction. I don’t belittle or mock their shortcomings, whatever those may be. I’m certainly not so uncouth as to engage in torture. Why is that improper? The point of a battle is to determine each other’s strength, push each other’s limits. If death happens to be the outcome of an uneven match, so be it.”
Ban looks sadly at him. “You can defeat someone and still learn something important about yourself without killing. Oftentimes you can do it without even fighting at all.”
Akabane’s brows furrow intently as he watches the other man, trying to grasp the concept of what Ban is saying. “I don’t understand, Midou-kun.”
“Sometimes, neither do I, Jackal.” Ban smiles wan defeat in this verbal exchange, having noticed that his cigarette has burnt itself out and there’s no more food to consume. “Come on. Let’s go home."
--
The cats are there to greet them on arrival, though they only hang around long enough to garner the appropriate attention and then they scurry off to parts unknown, sensing that their human companions require time alone to sort out their puzzling issues. The unexpected demise of Akabane’s laptop is still fresh to Medusa.
Both men are quiet as they enter their bedroom. Ban flops on the bed and kicks off his boots, which land with muffled thumps as he’s pulling off his shirt. Akabane hangs his clothes in the closet as he always does before changing into pajamas. Another framed photograph on the dresser catches his eye, and he leaves off removing his trousers as he goes to pick it up.
It’s not one of his favorites. Though their poses are innocent - Ban perched on the hood of his car, Akabane standing demurely next to him, one arm around Ban’s shoulders - there’s a singular element of childishness that Akabane finds inappropriate and completely unsuitable for the occasion of the picture. They’d been celebrating a successful joint venture, one in which both retrievers and transporters were necessary, and Akabane, eyes still looking towards the camera, had turned slightly to murmur something into his lover’s ear - what, he doesn’t remember now - and Ban had taken that opportunity to reach around unbeknownst to Akabane and add a pair of ‘rabbit ears’ to the back of his head.
Both Get Backers found this quite amusing at the time, naturally; Akabane not so much. He’d made certain later on that they both went away thoroughly instructed as to how to take a proper photograph and the correct conduct for posing in such. To this day Ginji is first to pass the camera to someone else during the rare instance Ban asks for a picture to be taken.
Akabane is unaware of the tiny smile that softens his face as he looks upon this breach of etiquette. Is it really so weak to permit such silly indulgences? They seem so...suitably human...
He’s never understood this kind of camaraderie, not even with his associates Mr. No-Brakes and Lady Poison, not even with his friend Kanade Semimaru, despite getting on well with all. Akabane has never been able to comprehend these strange emotions that make humans bond with each other, never quite grasped the paradoxes behind their inspiration. He’s certainly not familiar with ever having been a real part of them...until now.
Rejection is something he does know, and he’s even occasionally taken pains to cultivate it when he knows it will suit his purposes. But rejection is a two-edged sword: it hurts when it’s genuinely applicable, and Akabane, no matter how much he might deny it, still feels the acute burn of that cut when it’s made by the few people in this world whose existences he desires to share.
What he’d felt in the café when Ban had expressed his displeasure over Jackal’s line of reasoning...
Shame is something new to him, and even before it’s nipped at the fringes of his thoughts it annoys him greatly, for it brings to mind its cousin remorse. He’s boasted of never having regrets...it would be most discomforting to have to change that this late in the game.
His first instinct is to chase the troublesome feeling away, take a stab in the dark at it so it will bother him no more, but try as he might it’s a persistent devil. Akabane continues to feel the insistent nudge of an idea that he ought to make this right, but he knows not exactly how just yet, and so resorts to the simpler and perhaps baffling impulse to apologize - though for what, he isn’t sure either.
“Midou-kun, I - “
Ban is there before he knows it, coming up to Akabane and putting a finger to his lips as he takes the picture from his hands and replaces it on the dresser. “No more words tonight. Just you and me.”
Confused, Akabane tries again to explain, but further attempts at conversation are thwarted by Ban’s kiss, and with some manipulation and last shedding of clothing, they make a natural progression to bed, where they can speak in intimate languages better understood.
Hours later Akabane is still lying awake, tormented by restless thoughts and the nagging in his own heart. He senses Ban is feigning sleep as well, even though their backs are turned to each other. Akabane gathers courage and speaks.
“I keep thinking about Makubex-kun.”
A heavy sigh issues from the other side of the bed. “Got a helluva way of springing bad news on people, doesn’t he?”
“He can only work with what he’s given. He isn’t doing this to be antagonistic.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
“He helped us, you know.”
“Oh?”
“He told me once of a plot against your life. Had I not received such information in time, I wouldn’t have been able to deal with it.”
The frown underscores Ban’s reply. “How many corpses did it take?”
“It didn’t take any. Though I would have enjoyed that, I admit. But not for the reasons you’re thinking of.” Part of Akabane wants to be irked by the suggestion that he can’t entirely control his bloodthirsty impulses, but the other half of him hasn’t the strength to bother, and his old enemy guilt rears its head to taunt him with this failure. “I wanted to keep you safe...” He blinks, feeling that most unwelcome sting in his eyes again. “You’re important to me.”
There’s a rustle of bedcovers as Ban rolls over and squirms closer, against Akabane’s back. His breath warms the exposed skin of his shoulder as he speaks. “Go on.”
Akabane doesn’t look at him. He’s concentrating on reigning in his turbulent emotions. “What?”
“You were going to ask me if I considered you as important to me.”
Akabane’s lips part to automatically deny this, but he cannot make himself form the lies. There is too much between them now for them to treat their relationship with such blatant disregard. He swallows the bitter lump down, holding back a wince as it knocks hard against the sides of his throat.
“I know that you feel something...special, for me, in your own way. But I also know that I cannot compete with what you feel for Ginji-kun. I don’t blame either of you. I understand now, I think. If this lot is to be my fate, then I accept it, and will content myself with what I have. Perhaps that is all any of us...all I...can ever ask for...” He closes his eyes as he falls silent, unable to continue for fear of losing himself to the threatening tide.
Ban is quiet for a minute or two. He rises up on one arm and leans over Akabane, his voice low. “I wouldn’t have gone to these lengths if I thought any lesser of you, you know. I feel the way I do about Ginji because he’s my best friend. He was there for me at a time when I needed him most and didn’t know it, and I only hope that I’ve been able to give him something precious in return.”
He strokes his lover’s face, coaxing Akabane to look at him. “What I feel for you is in no way negated by that. You may not be the same thing as him, but that doesn’t mean you’re somehow worth less. You’re still something important to me, someone I want in my life. Different doesn’t always mean bad.”
Akabane considers this. “What does it mean, then?”
Ban smiles, though his eyes remain serious. “It means you’re my Jackal. Nothing can ever change that. No one can take that from you, no matter what else you’ve lost.”
“Sometimes I wonder. I may not turn out to be the person you thought I was,” Akabane says, compelled to offer this warning as courtesy, at least. “Neither of us is any stranger to the terror of the grave.”
Ban doesn’t seem concerned about this. “It’s okay to be afraid,” he says. “Fear isn’t always weakness. Sometimes it’s common sense, too.”
Something else interesting to examine, Akabane thinks. “Do you suppose Makubex-kun is afraid? Afraid of losing his reason for existing...”
Ban nods. “That’s why he concocted that asinine stunt with the bomb.”
“Perhaps he feels alive, too, with the people that are important to him. That’s what he wants most, to transcend a world of indifferent death. What difference does it make if that death is erased data or bloody flesh?” Akabane thinks that the dam can no longer hold, waits for hot rivers to wash anew over his face as he closes his eyes again, but surprisingly, the flood never comes. “That’s all I wanted too...”
Ban rolls him over and pulls him close, tucking his face against his neck while he rubs his back. Akabane clings tightly to him, unwilling to surrender this last piece of heaven for the abandonment that is more familiar to him. For the first time in his life, he is only too aware of that cold void which awaits all, the deafening aloneness of not even being able to trust in one’s own strength to see the long night through. The thought of it frightens even more than it angers him to his very core.
Death is the ultimate intangible enemy, oft-challenged but always unbeatable, and it has dogged his heels from the very moment he first drew breath upon the earth. Hadn’t others said that he was destined to remain its agent? If it is inevitable, what use is there to fight against such relentlessness that cares not if mortals live or perish?
But if there is some secret to everlasting life, some elixir capable of transcending the incalculable sorrow of such loss...Akabane can’t help but feel that maybe...just maybe...the Get Backers have discovered it - even if they themselves aren’t fully aware of it. Possibly this is the one thing truly worth fighting for, something with a value beyond that of transitory pleasure. The notion is intriguing, even if it continues to puzzle and irritate him.
Ban seems to understand his dilemma, and he keeps Akabane close, a silent reassurance that when the time comes he won’t have to face that dreadful fall by himself. He’s been through these crosshairs himself and knows what it’s like to stare down death - literally.
Akabane’s world now consists of warm, living flesh, of blood and beat and strength he can trust in, a foundation to center and hold him steady. He presses his face against Ban’s skin and inhales deeply the scent he knows to be his lover’s. This is life, here, and a sudden and shocking broadside of fierce devotion seizes his heart in a vise and nearly robs the breath from him.
“You’re digging again.” Ban eases their embrace and lightly takes hold of Akabane’s wrists to remind him not to knead the points of his scalpels into Ban’s skin as he’s clutching him.
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
Akabane gazes into his lover’s eyes, fascinated by the eternal blue he sees there. He feels as though he could drown in it and still pulse with the vibrancy of life energy. An impulse leaps from his tongue. “This isn’t a dream...is it, Ban-kun?”
“No. This is,” Ban says, and the next blink of his eyes has the both of them in a golden field, watching Ginji laugh and dance about plucking sunflowers, which he throws high in the air with all the glee of one truly joyful to be alive.
He comes running to them, squashing Ban in a monster hug, and then surprises Akabane by doing the exact same thing to him instead of offering his usual response when confronted with the transporter’s presence. Akabane has never known exactly why Ginji’s screaming and running away in fear always hurt deep down inside, but...it did, and to be presented with this kind of welcome for a change gives him a little warming thrill, even if he knows it’s not real. Awkwardly, because he isn’t used to responding in kind, he wraps his arms around this Ginji and hugs back.
“This is fun, huh Ban-chan, Akabane-san?”
“Yes,” Akabane says, hoping that they will chat some more, and is disappointed when dream-Ginji backs away, though this time his withdrawal stems from prioritizing.
“Play nice, you two,” the blond mirage says with a wink and waggle of finger pointed at them. “You belong together.”
He disappears - to where, Akabane isn’t sure because the dreamscape has changed, and now he and Ban are alone, sitting in the middle of a forest with a small lake nearby. Ban is dressed in ceremonial garb, and when Akabane looks down at himself he realizes he’s attired in something similar. This shall be their bower, their sacred gift to one another, and this time is theirs, precious to spend as they will.
Akabane feels something leap in his chest, and he leans forward at about the same time Ban is doing likewise. But before they can consummate their union, the Jagan is over with - although they’re still kissing in real time.
Blinking away the dream-dust, Akabane regards his lover with polite curiosity. “That’s a very nice dream.”
“It doesn’t have to be just a dream. We could make it reality.”
“Do you think so?”
“I know so.”
They curl together in restful watch, and Akabane wonders if he might finally have found a reason to believe again. He thinks some more, and after a while entices Ban into fresh conversation.
“About Makubex-kun... I wonder why he stays. Even though he controls the Lower Town with Ginji-kun’s blessing, I don’t think he’s very happy, living in Mugenjou.”
Ban fights a yawn and loses. “I don’t think anybody living there is, Kuroudo. It’s just the way the place is.”
“Yes,” Akabane says, thinking on the strange miasma of despair and energy that pervades the area. “But he wanted to change that. He dreams large for one so young. But he hasn’t any idea how to make those wishes come true.”
“Most people don’t,” Ban says. “They aren’t encouraged to dream. Dreamers sow the seeds of rebellion. To the gods of Babylon City, that’s the most intolerable thing they can imagine. As it is with all dictators. Taking away the hope that people find in dreams makes it easier to tame a population.”
“Rebellion isn’t always such a terrible thing, though,” Akabane says, the roots of an idea beginning to shape in his mind.
“True.” Ban unleashes another yawn and settles against the pillow some more. “Speaking of which, I gotta get some shuteye. My body’s decided to stage its own coup.” He draws the covers up around them, nestling Akabane against the side of his body. “Mmm. ’Night, Jackal.”
“Good night.”
Akabane rests his cheek on Ban’s shoulder but doesn’t go to sleep right away. He lies still and silent, turning over various thoughts. He lifts a spread palm, silhouetted against the faint glow of outside streetlights streaming in from the window. The starburst scar appears more vivid than usual, but it’s just the contrasting effects of shadows and light. Akabane’s fingers curve half-over and four bright slivers shoot into sight.
He studies these blades for a while, turning them this way and that, noting with absent interest how the light glints and flashes along their unforgiving edges. They are truly the perfect weapons, lacking only desire and will to fulfill their purpose. He sends them into withdrawal, then lets them emerge again, then pulls them back, and extends them again.
This back-and-forth ceases at length, when the drowsiness of settling calculations overtakes Akabane and he has decided upon an acceptable course of action. Now that he has made his decision he dwells no more upon his earlier anxieties, and he closes his eyes after disengaging his knives one last time, wraps his arms around Ban, and drifts peacefully onto that cloud of contented slumber.
--
To Be Concluded in Part 3
Author/Artist: Amethyst Hunter
Pairing: Ban/Akabane
Fandom: Get Backers
Theme: #2 - “news; letter”
Rating: PG-13 (m/m, language)
Warnings/Spoilers: Semi-heavy canonical references to Akabane’s and Ban’s histories, and manga arcs/characters, all tweaked to suit my purposes.
Notes: The song “Que Sera, Sera” (as sung by Doris Day) is written by Jay Livingston and Ray Evans. No profit or ownership is claimed by me, I’m only using the lyrics in the spirit of good fun.
- Makubex’s Trium Astral Unlocker is a real data entry - you’ll need a good slow-motion pause button to catch it, but if you look carefully on your TV while watching the anime during the IL arc, you can see a very brief flash of it in a corner onscreen.
- The Biblical verse Akabane references at the end is Ecclesiastes 3:1-8 - “To everything there is a season.”
- Ban’s knowledge of the Serpens constellation is courtesy of the Wikipedia entry.
Disclaimer: Don’t own any of the above, the usual blah.
Summary: Akabane and Ban learn of things they’re probably better off not knowing.
--
All it takes is a clipping of security wires, and the cameras that would have recorded his unauthorized entry and the alarms that would have announced it are rendered useless. Akabane slips inside the building as noiselessly as any ghost and locates the visitor’s map directing him to the exhibit he’s most interested in. They’ve changed the layout since last he was here, no doubt to try and purge the public’s memory of the infamous discovery all those years ago. In time, remodeling has done for newer generations what no amount of cleanup could for those who remembered, and the museum has managed to attract steady patron revenues in spite of its notoriety in modern local history.
Anxiety aside, a part of him takes careful note of the renovations. Gouzou Maguruma will find his report interesting later on. As well he should. Akabane saved his life here that night.
The Egyptian wing has been reset, the artifacts rearranged into a visually pleasing display. Surprisingly, they haven’t removed the statuary. Amazing, what a good chemical bath can do. None of the stains are remotely visible.
Akabane goes directly to the largest of these and pauses before it. A part of him expects to feel something, a little tremor of recognition, or perhaps reticence, but nothing comes. Finding himself unsure of the proper conduct to take, he reverts to uttering a soft prayer from his youth, impulsively making the sign of the Christian cross as if in genuflection at an altar.
One could take it as such, considering that this place was his baptism in first blood. He pictures the statue as it was then, form splattered with the ooze of a fresh fight, its offerings lying in crumpled disassembly with their eternal gazes fixed upon their underworld guide. He goes by many names and has many forms, but in this pantheon he is known as Anubis-Anpu, the Watcher of the Night, He who ferries the dead to their final accounting before the Lord of the Great Halls, Asar-Osiris.
Akabane remembers suddenly looking up after cutting down the last enemy, and receiving the distinct impression that the god had been judging him, taking a measured satisfaction from the sacrifice.
Such tithing, however, exacts a price of its own. In stepping into the crossroads and accepting this mantle of escort conferred upon him by Anpu, Akabane has also tacitly agreed that his own life is forfeit, subject to heavier weighing when at last it becomes his turn to cross over and stand before those scales. The prospect neither pleases nor displeases him. It’s all a part of the covenant, after all, and a true professional honors what bargains he makes - especially when those contracts are written in blood.
Akabane comes closer. The statue is more than twice his height, being carved from stone as ancient as the sands from whence it was fashioned. The granite is rough, pitted, its skin having weathered the passage of time with remarkable strength. Anpu’s face was not quite as fortunate, a part at the end of his snout having chipped off so that it appears as if the god is exposing a bemused smile, or perhaps a fanged snarl.
Akabane likes to think that it is both - a gentlemanly acknowledgement of kindred...and a warning to those who would tread foolishly upon the crossroads of the Guardian.
“I suppose it would be a rather presumptuous request at this hour,” he says aloud, gazing up at the inscrutable patron, “but, perchance, might you be kind enough to spare a bit of shelter for a weary traveler?”
Anpu says nothing. He doesn’t need to. With him, what’s often more important is what is not said rather than what is. Akabane bows his head, deferring to the unspoken answer, and takes refuge at the base of the figure as he rests his forehead on his folded arms and ponders his dilemma.
He doesn’t remember dozing off. But he must have. Perhaps he’s just so lost in thought that he barely notices how much time passes, and when a shadow off to the side eventually stirs and approaches him, Akabane resigns himself to the inevitable discovery.
“Had a feeling I’d find you here,” Ban says in a neutral tone. “Nice touch, knocking out those guards with Himiko’s sleep scent. How’d you get her to share?”
Akabane doesn’t look up at him. “I asked her.”
The scowl is evident in Ban’s voice. “How come she’ll grant you favors but not me?”
“I asked her nicely,” Akabane replies, without a trace of scorn.
They fall into silence, until Ban stoops on bended knee in front of him. “I get worried, you know, when I come home and you’re not there like you say you’ll be,” he says quietly. “I think we need - “
“ - to talk,” Akabane finishes, before he realizes that his lover also has something of importance to share. He looks up from beneath the brim of his hat, trying to keep his surprise hidden. “You first,” he says.
“You had anything to eat yet?” Ban asks.
Akabane shakes his head.
“We’ll go downtown.”
“Not there,” Akabane says quietly. “In private. Please?”
After a moment, Ban nods. “We can get something to go.” He looks closer at Akabane and gestures at his hand. The padding of bandages beneath the glove is obvious, even in the dim glow of nightlights on the walls. “That have anything to do with the dead laptop I found in the trash?”
Akabane slowly peels off the glove and unwraps the bandaging. The inside layers are caked with dried scabs of brownish blood. He flexes his hand, the skin marred now only by its starburst scar in the center. Out of habit, he extends his scalpels, fingers curling over slightly in battle reflex, but makes no move to deploy his weapons. He wills them into retreat, and starts a little when Ban gently takes hold of his hand.
“Too bad you can’t kill spam that way. I bet computer kid would read you the riot act for wasting a perfectly good machine,” the other man says with a hint of wry amusement.
The corners of Akabane’s lips twitch, but he resists the smile. Willing his eyes to meet Ban’s, he says softly, “Makubex-kun is the reason for that destroyed laptop.”
Something flickers in Ban’s eyes, but he makes no comment. He squeezes Akabane’s bare hand before letting go and standing up. “We’ll talk about it over a bowl of Paul’s best. Nobody can think on an empty stomach, least of all me.”
--
Not for nothing has Paul Wan acquired his reputation as the perfect confidante. Shopkeepers, much like their bartending brethren, have a talent for coaxing forth even the most stubborn of closed mouths, and then quietly absorbing everything into percolation until such time as information becomes needed. When he sees a subdued Ban and Akabane enter his establishment this late, he silently puts on a fresh pot of coffee and goes into the kitchen to heat up the stove. The tab will just have to wait.
Ban plops on the nearest stool and places their order once Paul returns, while Akabane withdraws his pocketbook from his coat and proffers the required payment. Paul accepts it without his customary wisecrack about Ban’s stinginess and tells them their meals will be ready shortly, then, tacking on as an offhanded note, “I have some work to do in the basement. If you two want to stick around it’s fine. Just let me know when you leave so I can lock up.” He goes to the front door and turns the “open” sign around, now denoting that the Honky Tonk is officially closed for the evening.
Ban waits until the food has been served and Paul has disappeared to the lower storeroom levels before opening up the conversation. He takes an impossibly huge bite of his sandwich and says simultaneously, “I malked mif Makumex tonight. Kid had some innerefting mings to say.”
Akabane tenses, his back stiffening. He sips his spoonful of soup carefully before answering. “What did he tell you?”
Ban swallows his chunk of food. “How far back do you and Babylon City go, Akabane?”
A peculiar numbness takes over Akabane’s insides. He feels quite like the proverbial deer trapped in the blinding glare of an oncoming car’s headlights. “Far enough,” he says in measured tones.
Ban doesn’t seem terribly surprised. “I figured as much,” he says evenly. “Did you know they were using Doctor Jackal as one of their pawns?”
Akabane pushes his soup away; he isn’t hungry any more. He folds his gloved hands in his lap and looks at the counter. “The thought had occurred to me on more than one occasion, yes.” He slips out a scalpel and begins to slowly turn it over in his fingers. “What are you getting at?”
Ban wolfs down the last of his sandwich and starts in on his soup. “Take that umbrella off. This ain’t no friggin’ Wizard of Oz setup. I like being able to see who I’m talking to.”
Akabane lifts his head, eyes narrowing.
Ban growls. “I’m not mad at you, Kuroudo. I just want to know what the hell’s going on.”
“So do I,” Akabane says. But he complies with his lover’s request and takes down his hat, setting it aside.
“Thank you. That’s better,” Ban tells him as he slurps away the last of his soup. “You gonna finish that?”
“You may have it,” Akabane says, nudging his half-eaten bowl towards him, as well as the sandwich sitting untouched on his plate.
Ban doesn’t gulp it down right away. He raises a brow at Akabane. “You sure? It’s good...”
“It’s all right.”
Shrugging, Ban devours the leftovers in short order. “What’d Makubex say to you that’s got you whacking laptops now? You didn’t even give it the badge of dishonor.”
Akabane toys with his knife some more. He feels naked without his hat, so he bows his head, letting his hair hide his face in its shadows. He licks his lips, pausing on the words as he forms them, unsure of how to break the news. “You know about magic, don’t you, Midou-kun?”
The wariness is immediate. “What kind of magic?”
“It has standard as well as arcane uses, actually,” Akabane says. “But I suppose to a layman, it would all seem the same.”
“So spit it out already. Don’t dance around the subject with flowery language. I hate that shit.”
Very well. Akabane sighs. “Blood magic.”
That gets Ban’s undivided attention. He drops the partially-gnawed roll he’d been working on and stares. “What sort of blood magic are we talking about here?”
“Life,” Akabane says, hesitating, “and death.” He waits as he gauges the other’s reaction; Ban’s alert but calm posture lets him know to continue. “In surgery, a lot depends on the patient’s blood. Infections can sicken and kill. Not enough blood available during transfusions, and a patient dies on the operating table from lack of circulation. Too much uncontained and they will bleed to death through open wounds.”
He glances at the scalpel still resting in his fingers. He begins turning it over again. “Yet this endless river is what keeps humans alive. Blood brings renewal through the forming of new cells to take the places of those that die, and it helps to transport harmful materials out of the body by fighting infections.”
“But not all of them,” Ban says. “Some infections are blood-based. And if you’re talking transfusions, you need the right blood type, or the incompatibility can kill too.”
“Yes,” Akabane nods, somewhat reassured to note that his lover’s thoughts are on the same wavelength as his own. “That was one of the reasons the experiment was proposed. Even those that purport to be gods still require modern medicine, after all.”
“Doled out under restrictions, I’m sure,” Ban mutters, thinking of Lower Town’s less than fortunate denizens.
“I had nothing to do with its implementation,” Akabane says, hating the nearly imperceptible note of desperation that sneaks into his voice. Part of him expects to be disbelieved, and he tightens his hand around the scalpel. “It wasn’t even my idea. They used my work, but they didn’t involve me until the actual testing.” His gaze falls momentarily. “That was how we discovered my ability to produce these.” He lifts the scalpel into view.
Ban reaches out, running his fingers over the flat of the shining blade. “I guess that explains the one hundred and eight theory,” he muses.
“The forms come with practice,” Akabane explains softly. “I’m best with blades, as you’ve noticed. But I’m not limited to that template. So long as I have a source material, I can replicate a perfect pattern of anything solvent.”
Ban nods, still eyeing the scalpel thoughtfully. “Computer kid’s been tapping into the Archive again. Much as I admire his brass, he’s asking for it, poking his nose into their party favors. People like that don’t like sharing.” He sighs and rubs his forehead.
“The project was never finished,” Akabane says, his eyes revealing a rare hollowness. “It was supposed to have been canceled after the...after an...accident that took place. But someone decided to keep it active. I don’t know why.” A bitter chord makes his voice tremble a little. “You’d think the successors would have learned from a bloody lesson.”
Ban studies him. “You know the people who were responsible?”
Akabane shakes his head. “Even if they were willing, the original leaders couldn’t tell us anything. They’re dead.” He pauses, and adds flatly, “I killed them. All but one, and that person survived only because she wasn’t there at the time.” He feels a sudden burn in his eyes, and looks away, unwilling to concede to the defeat of tears.
Silence, broken only by the intermittent hum of the shop’s ventilation system, reigns steady for a while. Ban resumes polishing off the remains of food, while Akabane broods over the possible ramifications of his confession. Eventually Ban speaks.
“You think whoever’s mucking with this blood experiment will try to screw with you again?”
“I don’t know. I wouldn’t put it past them at this point.” Akabane puts the single scalpel back in place and clutches his hands together to keep from further fidgeting. “I think Kyouji Kagami knew, or suspected some association.” He forces himself to look at Ban without betraying any sign of emotion. “He asked me if I would consider going back to the City.”
Ban steeples his fingers together in a pyramid as he leans on the counter surface. “Damn meddlesome bar host.”
“I made it quite clear to him,” Akabane says, his tone slipping into frigidity as he clenches one hand around a bundle of half-emerging knives, “that I was no longer interested in any such offer.”
Ban lights up a cigarette and takes a long, easy drag on it, waving his hand to disperse the smoke. They sit in more gloomy silence for a while.
“Let’s not worry about it until something happens,” he says at last. “Till then, there’s not much we can do, is there?”
Akabane looks up in barely concealed surprise. “I thought you’d be more upset,” he says hesitantly.
Ban looks at him. “I don’t like what Jackal does. You know that. I also can’t stand these Brain Trust assholes any more than you do. Whatever happened...I’m sure you had your reasons.” He looks out the window, into the fathomless night. “God knows I had mine...” He breaks off his muttered thought and looks back to Akabane. “What’s the deal with the museum?”
“You haven’t heard the rumors?” Akabane tilts his head in mild curiosity. It’s practically legend among those in the transporting business. “That was where Doctor Jackal first appeared.”
Ban swivels around and sits with his legs propped on the lower bars of Akabane’s seat, one arm resting on the countertop. “I’m game for the story.” He stubs out the dwindled butt in his fingers and lights another.
“Very well.” Akabane combs a lock of hair away from his eyes, tucking it behind his ear. “Gouzou Maguruma and I had known each other for a while, and he invited me to ride with him on several transport runs when I expressed interest in finding new employment. He said if I liked it he would teach me how the transporting business works.”
He shrugs. “It was decent at first, although mostly I just sat and watched. Rather boring, at that. But I was glad enough for the distraction it provided. After the war...after I left Babylon,” he says, voice lowering to a near-whisper briefly before picking up again, “I didn’t want to return to the medical profession.”
Akabane’s eyes drop to his hands again. “Everyone in the business has their own identifying handle that they operate under. Maguruma, as you know of course, is ‘No-Brakes.’ Typically, a transporter doesn’t become listed until after he or she has successfully completed a series of solo runs. It proves to clients that they are dependable on the job.”
“Like gangsters have their ‘made’ men carry out hits in rites of passage,” Ban says.
“Something like that,” Akabane agrees, a hint of a smile in his eyes as he looks at his lover. “Since I had no prior experience under my belt, Gouzou said he would call me ‘the doctor’ because of my background. Hardly anyone uses their real name, you see.”
“In such an esteemed, respectable service like underworld transporting? I can’t imagine why not,” Ban drawls, and they both chuckle over his sarcasm.
“He had an annoying habit of shortening it to ‘Doc’ in those days,” Akabane says, wrinkling his nose.
“’Doc’?” Ban laughs. “I like that!”
“Honestly, Midou-kun. It’s undignified! Do I look like a ‘Doc’ to you?”
“No, you look like an ‘Aka-chan’.” Ban grins rakishly and reaches over to tousle Akabane’s hair. “Or a ‘Bane-tan’.”
“Midou-kun!” The scolding isn’t as harsh as it sounds, for as much as he isn’t keen on being teased out of his blue mood, Akabane can’t help but appreciate his lover’s attempt at comfort. He gives in and offers a small conciliatory smile. “I’d expect that sort of immaturity from Ginji-kun.”
He clears his throat softly as a cue to bring them back to the topic of discussion. “Where was I? Oh yes - one night we were assigned a delivery at the museum. Maguruma told me to wait inside the truck and he would go pick up the item. It was quite a while for him to return, and I got tired of waiting, so I decided to go see what was taking so long.” Akabane’s brows pinch in memory. “As luck would have it, he’d been ambushed inside by a rival transport gang that called themselves the Black Widows.”
“Ahhh,” Ban says. “I think I remember hearing about those guys.” He blows a puff of smoke into a ring and watches it float across the room. Then he snaps his fingers. “Now I know why Ginji was always complaining about ghosts when we went there once!” His eyes shift to Akabane. “Spiritual residue is harder to get rid of than soldered gum.”
“But you haven’t heard the whole story,” Akabane says. “The Widows were upset because they felt that this particular job had been promised to them by the client. That was why their leader had taken Maguruma prisoner. He would have been killed if I hadn’t come to investigate his absence.”
His eyes close momentarily. “I’ll never forget the tension I encountered. I was in a...strange...place, unlike anything I’d ever felt before, and - I remember feeling the blades in my veins for the first time, becoming attuned to them in a way I’d never experienced before.” He opens them and flicks a now-neutral gaze out the front window.
Ban frowns. “How’d you take out a whole group by yourself? I assume back then you were still learning the gist of using scalpels in a non-medical environment.”
Akabane lifts his chin in subtle pride. “I did rather well for a beginner. When we were stationed together Semimaru taught me some basic sparring. It was only a matter of incorporating the use of blades into those maneuvers.”
“Even so, an entire army of yakuza-backed agents? I mean, how many of those guys were there, eight? Ten?”
“Twelve,” Akabane lightly corrects him. “But you are forgetting my unique abilities. They had knives too, but compared with me, they weren’t very good with them.” He takes one of Ban’s hands and traces his fingers. “A common mistake inexperienced knife-fighters make is in using the end of the blade for their attack, and they tend to wield the weapon in long sweeping arcs. But that’s only good for certain circumstances. The side of the knife is often what does the most damage in a fight, and it ought to be handled the way you manipulate your fighting prowess: short, sharp cuts, quickly, like the strike of a snake.”
“You have too much free time on your hands,” Ban mutters.
Akabane ignores the slight. “Medical school teaches students the proper way to hold a scalpel. You need a praying mantis grip,” he says, demonstrating as he unsheathes a knife and presents it. “This technique lets the blade do the work, and you don’t waste precious energy expending unnecessary strength.”
“I guess that makes sense,” Ban says. “In a very twisted, screwed-up alternate dimension sort of way.”
The scalpel retreats neatly with the barest of whispers. “It worked,” Akabane replies with a little shrug. “We got our cargo safely, Maguruma survived, and...I found my new calling.”
“I’m not sure I grasp the name part of it though,” Ban says.
Akabane smiles gently. “The area where the battle took place was the wing of the Egyptian exhibit. They’ve rearranged everything since then. That statue I was sitting by was the very same one featured in the news coverage. They said the carnage done was fit for carrion-eaters.” He reaches up to adjust his hat, remembers he’s not wearing it, and lays his hand over his chest instead. “You know what Anpu’s function is, don’t you?”
“Guardian of the crossroads between life and death, holy embalmer and one of the attendants who measures the heart in the Great Halls of Asar-Osiris, Lord of the Dead,” Ban answers. “But I doubt that jackal ever took to making corpses as opposed to merely wrapping and escorting them.”
“But it has a memorable ring to it, no?” Akabane pauses. “The Js came later, after I’d adapted and refined my technique.”
Ban sighs in resigned amusement. “You need a new hobby, Akabane.”
Akabane just smiles patiently. “I appreciate your concern, Midou-kun. However, I assure you, there’s no need for it. This is the path I chose.”
“I worry about you,” Ban tells him quietly.
Purple eyes grow tender with mist. “I like being worried over by you. But you don’t have to be so concerned over this - “
Ban interrupts. “Yes I do. That’s what you do, when you care about somebody else. I know sometimes you can’t help it - those idiots that hired us for the IL. The others you’ve offed have been bad apples too in one way or another, but most of them probably weren’t past total derangement. In passing that judgment on them, you’re denying them their free will to make their own choices.”
Akabane is confused. “I don’t pass any judgment. It matters not to me how others live, or receive their daily satisfaction. I don’t belittle or mock their shortcomings, whatever those may be. I’m certainly not so uncouth as to engage in torture. Why is that improper? The point of a battle is to determine each other’s strength, push each other’s limits. If death happens to be the outcome of an uneven match, so be it.”
Ban looks sadly at him. “You can defeat someone and still learn something important about yourself without killing. Oftentimes you can do it without even fighting at all.”
Akabane’s brows furrow intently as he watches the other man, trying to grasp the concept of what Ban is saying. “I don’t understand, Midou-kun.”
“Sometimes, neither do I, Jackal.” Ban smiles wan defeat in this verbal exchange, having noticed that his cigarette has burnt itself out and there’s no more food to consume. “Come on. Let’s go home."
--
The cats are there to greet them on arrival, though they only hang around long enough to garner the appropriate attention and then they scurry off to parts unknown, sensing that their human companions require time alone to sort out their puzzling issues. The unexpected demise of Akabane’s laptop is still fresh to Medusa.
Both men are quiet as they enter their bedroom. Ban flops on the bed and kicks off his boots, which land with muffled thumps as he’s pulling off his shirt. Akabane hangs his clothes in the closet as he always does before changing into pajamas. Another framed photograph on the dresser catches his eye, and he leaves off removing his trousers as he goes to pick it up.
It’s not one of his favorites. Though their poses are innocent - Ban perched on the hood of his car, Akabane standing demurely next to him, one arm around Ban’s shoulders - there’s a singular element of childishness that Akabane finds inappropriate and completely unsuitable for the occasion of the picture. They’d been celebrating a successful joint venture, one in which both retrievers and transporters were necessary, and Akabane, eyes still looking towards the camera, had turned slightly to murmur something into his lover’s ear - what, he doesn’t remember now - and Ban had taken that opportunity to reach around unbeknownst to Akabane and add a pair of ‘rabbit ears’ to the back of his head.
Both Get Backers found this quite amusing at the time, naturally; Akabane not so much. He’d made certain later on that they both went away thoroughly instructed as to how to take a proper photograph and the correct conduct for posing in such. To this day Ginji is first to pass the camera to someone else during the rare instance Ban asks for a picture to be taken.
Akabane is unaware of the tiny smile that softens his face as he looks upon this breach of etiquette. Is it really so weak to permit such silly indulgences? They seem so...suitably human...
He’s never understood this kind of camaraderie, not even with his associates Mr. No-Brakes and Lady Poison, not even with his friend Kanade Semimaru, despite getting on well with all. Akabane has never been able to comprehend these strange emotions that make humans bond with each other, never quite grasped the paradoxes behind their inspiration. He’s certainly not familiar with ever having been a real part of them...until now.
Rejection is something he does know, and he’s even occasionally taken pains to cultivate it when he knows it will suit his purposes. But rejection is a two-edged sword: it hurts when it’s genuinely applicable, and Akabane, no matter how much he might deny it, still feels the acute burn of that cut when it’s made by the few people in this world whose existences he desires to share.
What he’d felt in the café when Ban had expressed his displeasure over Jackal’s line of reasoning...
Shame is something new to him, and even before it’s nipped at the fringes of his thoughts it annoys him greatly, for it brings to mind its cousin remorse. He’s boasted of never having regrets...it would be most discomforting to have to change that this late in the game.
His first instinct is to chase the troublesome feeling away, take a stab in the dark at it so it will bother him no more, but try as he might it’s a persistent devil. Akabane continues to feel the insistent nudge of an idea that he ought to make this right, but he knows not exactly how just yet, and so resorts to the simpler and perhaps baffling impulse to apologize - though for what, he isn’t sure either.
“Midou-kun, I - “
Ban is there before he knows it, coming up to Akabane and putting a finger to his lips as he takes the picture from his hands and replaces it on the dresser. “No more words tonight. Just you and me.”
Confused, Akabane tries again to explain, but further attempts at conversation are thwarted by Ban’s kiss, and with some manipulation and last shedding of clothing, they make a natural progression to bed, where they can speak in intimate languages better understood.
Hours later Akabane is still lying awake, tormented by restless thoughts and the nagging in his own heart. He senses Ban is feigning sleep as well, even though their backs are turned to each other. Akabane gathers courage and speaks.
“I keep thinking about Makubex-kun.”
A heavy sigh issues from the other side of the bed. “Got a helluva way of springing bad news on people, doesn’t he?”
“He can only work with what he’s given. He isn’t doing this to be antagonistic.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
“He helped us, you know.”
“Oh?”
“He told me once of a plot against your life. Had I not received such information in time, I wouldn’t have been able to deal with it.”
The frown underscores Ban’s reply. “How many corpses did it take?”
“It didn’t take any. Though I would have enjoyed that, I admit. But not for the reasons you’re thinking of.” Part of Akabane wants to be irked by the suggestion that he can’t entirely control his bloodthirsty impulses, but the other half of him hasn’t the strength to bother, and his old enemy guilt rears its head to taunt him with this failure. “I wanted to keep you safe...” He blinks, feeling that most unwelcome sting in his eyes again. “You’re important to me.”
There’s a rustle of bedcovers as Ban rolls over and squirms closer, against Akabane’s back. His breath warms the exposed skin of his shoulder as he speaks. “Go on.”
Akabane doesn’t look at him. He’s concentrating on reigning in his turbulent emotions. “What?”
“You were going to ask me if I considered you as important to me.”
Akabane’s lips part to automatically deny this, but he cannot make himself form the lies. There is too much between them now for them to treat their relationship with such blatant disregard. He swallows the bitter lump down, holding back a wince as it knocks hard against the sides of his throat.
“I know that you feel something...special, for me, in your own way. But I also know that I cannot compete with what you feel for Ginji-kun. I don’t blame either of you. I understand now, I think. If this lot is to be my fate, then I accept it, and will content myself with what I have. Perhaps that is all any of us...all I...can ever ask for...” He closes his eyes as he falls silent, unable to continue for fear of losing himself to the threatening tide.
Ban is quiet for a minute or two. He rises up on one arm and leans over Akabane, his voice low. “I wouldn’t have gone to these lengths if I thought any lesser of you, you know. I feel the way I do about Ginji because he’s my best friend. He was there for me at a time when I needed him most and didn’t know it, and I only hope that I’ve been able to give him something precious in return.”
He strokes his lover’s face, coaxing Akabane to look at him. “What I feel for you is in no way negated by that. You may not be the same thing as him, but that doesn’t mean you’re somehow worth less. You’re still something important to me, someone I want in my life. Different doesn’t always mean bad.”
Akabane considers this. “What does it mean, then?”
Ban smiles, though his eyes remain serious. “It means you’re my Jackal. Nothing can ever change that. No one can take that from you, no matter what else you’ve lost.”
“Sometimes I wonder. I may not turn out to be the person you thought I was,” Akabane says, compelled to offer this warning as courtesy, at least. “Neither of us is any stranger to the terror of the grave.”
Ban doesn’t seem concerned about this. “It’s okay to be afraid,” he says. “Fear isn’t always weakness. Sometimes it’s common sense, too.”
Something else interesting to examine, Akabane thinks. “Do you suppose Makubex-kun is afraid? Afraid of losing his reason for existing...”
Ban nods. “That’s why he concocted that asinine stunt with the bomb.”
“Perhaps he feels alive, too, with the people that are important to him. That’s what he wants most, to transcend a world of indifferent death. What difference does it make if that death is erased data or bloody flesh?” Akabane thinks that the dam can no longer hold, waits for hot rivers to wash anew over his face as he closes his eyes again, but surprisingly, the flood never comes. “That’s all I wanted too...”
Ban rolls him over and pulls him close, tucking his face against his neck while he rubs his back. Akabane clings tightly to him, unwilling to surrender this last piece of heaven for the abandonment that is more familiar to him. For the first time in his life, he is only too aware of that cold void which awaits all, the deafening aloneness of not even being able to trust in one’s own strength to see the long night through. The thought of it frightens even more than it angers him to his very core.
Death is the ultimate intangible enemy, oft-challenged but always unbeatable, and it has dogged his heels from the very moment he first drew breath upon the earth. Hadn’t others said that he was destined to remain its agent? If it is inevitable, what use is there to fight against such relentlessness that cares not if mortals live or perish?
But if there is some secret to everlasting life, some elixir capable of transcending the incalculable sorrow of such loss...Akabane can’t help but feel that maybe...just maybe...the Get Backers have discovered it - even if they themselves aren’t fully aware of it. Possibly this is the one thing truly worth fighting for, something with a value beyond that of transitory pleasure. The notion is intriguing, even if it continues to puzzle and irritate him.
Ban seems to understand his dilemma, and he keeps Akabane close, a silent reassurance that when the time comes he won’t have to face that dreadful fall by himself. He’s been through these crosshairs himself and knows what it’s like to stare down death - literally.
Akabane’s world now consists of warm, living flesh, of blood and beat and strength he can trust in, a foundation to center and hold him steady. He presses his face against Ban’s skin and inhales deeply the scent he knows to be his lover’s. This is life, here, and a sudden and shocking broadside of fierce devotion seizes his heart in a vise and nearly robs the breath from him.
“You’re digging again.” Ban eases their embrace and lightly takes hold of Akabane’s wrists to remind him not to knead the points of his scalpels into Ban’s skin as he’s clutching him.
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
Akabane gazes into his lover’s eyes, fascinated by the eternal blue he sees there. He feels as though he could drown in it and still pulse with the vibrancy of life energy. An impulse leaps from his tongue. “This isn’t a dream...is it, Ban-kun?”
“No. This is,” Ban says, and the next blink of his eyes has the both of them in a golden field, watching Ginji laugh and dance about plucking sunflowers, which he throws high in the air with all the glee of one truly joyful to be alive.
He comes running to them, squashing Ban in a monster hug, and then surprises Akabane by doing the exact same thing to him instead of offering his usual response when confronted with the transporter’s presence. Akabane has never known exactly why Ginji’s screaming and running away in fear always hurt deep down inside, but...it did, and to be presented with this kind of welcome for a change gives him a little warming thrill, even if he knows it’s not real. Awkwardly, because he isn’t used to responding in kind, he wraps his arms around this Ginji and hugs back.
“This is fun, huh Ban-chan, Akabane-san?”
“Yes,” Akabane says, hoping that they will chat some more, and is disappointed when dream-Ginji backs away, though this time his withdrawal stems from prioritizing.
“Play nice, you two,” the blond mirage says with a wink and waggle of finger pointed at them. “You belong together.”
He disappears - to where, Akabane isn’t sure because the dreamscape has changed, and now he and Ban are alone, sitting in the middle of a forest with a small lake nearby. Ban is dressed in ceremonial garb, and when Akabane looks down at himself he realizes he’s attired in something similar. This shall be their bower, their sacred gift to one another, and this time is theirs, precious to spend as they will.
Akabane feels something leap in his chest, and he leans forward at about the same time Ban is doing likewise. But before they can consummate their union, the Jagan is over with - although they’re still kissing in real time.
Blinking away the dream-dust, Akabane regards his lover with polite curiosity. “That’s a very nice dream.”
“It doesn’t have to be just a dream. We could make it reality.”
“Do you think so?”
“I know so.”
They curl together in restful watch, and Akabane wonders if he might finally have found a reason to believe again. He thinks some more, and after a while entices Ban into fresh conversation.
“About Makubex-kun... I wonder why he stays. Even though he controls the Lower Town with Ginji-kun’s blessing, I don’t think he’s very happy, living in Mugenjou.”
Ban fights a yawn and loses. “I don’t think anybody living there is, Kuroudo. It’s just the way the place is.”
“Yes,” Akabane says, thinking on the strange miasma of despair and energy that pervades the area. “But he wanted to change that. He dreams large for one so young. But he hasn’t any idea how to make those wishes come true.”
“Most people don’t,” Ban says. “They aren’t encouraged to dream. Dreamers sow the seeds of rebellion. To the gods of Babylon City, that’s the most intolerable thing they can imagine. As it is with all dictators. Taking away the hope that people find in dreams makes it easier to tame a population.”
“Rebellion isn’t always such a terrible thing, though,” Akabane says, the roots of an idea beginning to shape in his mind.
“True.” Ban unleashes another yawn and settles against the pillow some more. “Speaking of which, I gotta get some shuteye. My body’s decided to stage its own coup.” He draws the covers up around them, nestling Akabane against the side of his body. “Mmm. ’Night, Jackal.”
“Good night.”
Akabane rests his cheek on Ban’s shoulder but doesn’t go to sleep right away. He lies still and silent, turning over various thoughts. He lifts a spread palm, silhouetted against the faint glow of outside streetlights streaming in from the window. The starburst scar appears more vivid than usual, but it’s just the contrasting effects of shadows and light. Akabane’s fingers curve half-over and four bright slivers shoot into sight.
He studies these blades for a while, turning them this way and that, noting with absent interest how the light glints and flashes along their unforgiving edges. They are truly the perfect weapons, lacking only desire and will to fulfill their purpose. He sends them into withdrawal, then lets them emerge again, then pulls them back, and extends them again.
This back-and-forth ceases at length, when the drowsiness of settling calculations overtakes Akabane and he has decided upon an acceptable course of action. Now that he has made his decision he dwells no more upon his earlier anxieties, and he closes his eyes after disengaging his knives one last time, wraps his arms around Ban, and drifts peacefully onto that cloud of contented slumber.
--
To Be Concluded in Part 3