FIC: Occupational Hazards (PG) for vr2lbast
Author: ambientlight
Recipient: vr2lbast
Title: Occupational Hazards
Rating: PG
Characters/Pairing(s): Ken, Youji
Summary: Ken doesn't deal well with botched missions. Youji is unsympathetic.
Warnings/Content: Language; true-to-canon medical inaccuracies.
Word Count: 1,567
Author's Notes: Kapitel era; passing references to the DIA drama CDs and episode 3.
"You know," Ken said, shifting his grip, "I'm getting pretty fucking tired of this."
The possible parameters of that announcement were broad, but Youji suspected he knew exactly what Ken was complaining about. It wasn't personal, he figured. Omi was the sort to blame himself, and Aya... well, who ever knew what Aya was thinking? But Ken got angry when missions went wrong. Simple as that. In a sense, the undisguised emotion was welcome: it was easy to understand, and less damaging to one's pride than Aya's cold efficiency.
Though Aya did make for a marginally better human crutch. It was probably the height difference.
"I share your sentiments," Youji said dryly. He did, as well: each painful, hobbling step was a reminder of his own incompetence. "I'll try not to get shot next time, shall I?"
Ken made a vague noise which Youji chose to interpret as forgiveness, or at least permission enough to lean a little heavier against the other man. If Ken noticed, he said nothing.
As far as bullet wounds went (and Ken was right, Youji thought; wasn't it pathetic that he'd had this much experience with them?), this wasn't too bad, especially for a shot to the thigh. Oh yes, there was the pain, and his mobility was compromised, but at least it had missed both bone and major arteries. If the rest of the mission had gone smoothly, it would have warranted little more than a disapproving footnote in Omi's mission report and several relaxing weeks of not killing anyone.
A pity, then, that the rest of the mission was a shambles.
Their part of it, anyway. Hitching a ride on a truck bound for the targets' headquarters was fine unless you were discovered. They'd destroyed the cargo, which was half the mission done, but the resulting chaos had left them stranded in the middle of a far-too-large industrial compound with far too little an idea of where they were. Then there was the matter of their non-functioning comm units, and the small inconvenience of having been shot in the leg. Which was why it had come to this: two lost assassins floundering in the dark.
At least Aya and Omi had taken out the targets, Youji thought. Probably. That was the half of Weiss you could count on.
His steps had been slowing, despite Ken's determined pace. Were they far enough from the truck's smouldering remains? Would there be security reinforcements? Youji couldn't be sure, but he was decreasingly inclined to care. If there were other guards, the most he and Ken could hope for was to escape immediate notice, and they could do that just as well leaning against a building as stumbling around.
Youji cleared his throat. "Not to get even more pathetic, but could we take a break? This isn't doing wonders for the bleeding."
-----
The ground was dusty and the wall against his back less than comfortable, but Youji wasn't complaining. They should probably bind the wound, he thought vaguely, glancing at his blood-soaked leg. But first things first: he fumbled in his pockets for a pack of cigarettes. Then, a lighter.
"For fuck's sake, Youji."
"I preferred it when you were calling my name in distress," Youji said mildly. "Very touching."
Ken scowled, rebuke forgotten. "Some guy shoots at you, you fall, what was I meant to think? Goddammit, Youji, I thought you were..."
Youji lit a cigarette and leaned back against the grimy wall.
"Fuck," Ken said, voice shaky with what might have been laughter. "How did we get into this mess?"
"Not memorising the compound's layout, for a start."
Ken ignored him. "This is crazy. I work in a fucking flowershop. The kids I play soccer with, they call me 'big brother' like they mean it. But it's Friday night, and the most normal thing about it is the part where I've killed half a dozen men. Most of them while I thought you were dead. You know what it's like, right? Cutting people down, all the while thinking, fuck, I should have been there, I should have stopped them before they shot him. I just-- I didn't expect this, okay. I didn't sign up to get covered in my teammates' blood."
Youji glanced over, but Ken was staring blankly out into the darkness. At least he wasn't staring at his bloodstained hands, Youji thought. He felt light-headed enough that such a dramatic gesture might have startled a laugh from him, and that didn't seem the most tactful response to a teammate having an existential crisis.
"Pretty sure most of that blood isn't mine," he offered. "Look. It's going to be fine, Ken. You've seen me worse than this."
"That meant to be reassuring?" There was anger, now, sudden and sharp, and Ken finally turned to meet Youji's gaze. "You think it makes me feel better that you almost get killed on a regular basis?"
"Hey, hey, I didn't think I was that bad at dodging bullets--"
"It scares me, alright? It scares me that we might go out one night and you or Aya or Omi won't make it back. That maybe I'll be too busy taking a target down to notice when one of you needs back-up." His eyes were bright, unfocused; Youji couldn't tell if they held desperation or fear or something darker. "That we'll be speeding down the road to the hospital but it'll be too late, and I'll have to watch Omi bleed to death in the back seat--"
"Ken."
"I have these dreams, right, these dreams of endless corridors of men with guns, and then I turn the corner and there's one of you, on the ground. If it was just that we were murderers-- if it was just the killing, that'd be one thing, but--"
"Ken."
Ken blinked; realised, with a start, that he'd been gripping the other man's shoulders. He drew back, hands shaking.
Youji settled back against the wall. The pain in his leg had faded to an insistent background burn. He had nothing to say to Ken's tirade, and no wish to think about it long enough to come up with a reply. Yeah, any of them could die on a mission. He knew that, in a detached sort of way, but his nightmares were made of different things.
He finished the cigarette, and then another, feeling oddly content with the situation: a half-pack of cigarettes to accompany an evening of slow but insistent blood loss.
At least no guards had appeared yet.
Beside him, Ken was taking the inactivity less well. He snapped his bugnuks out, sheathed them -- snapped them out again, almost trembling. Textbook study in frustration, Youji thought idly. He didn't feel in the mood to make another attempt at reassurance. It seemed perverse that the injured person would have to be the one doing so.
"How's this," Ken said, standing up abruptly. His claws were sheathed, at least. "Why don't you just stay here, and I'll head out to--"
"No."
The response, as unthinking as reflex, startled Youji himself; it certainly seemed to have startled Ken, who looked down at him with an expression halfway between surprise and annoyance.
"Look, I'm flattered that you like my company that much, but it's going to be tricky finding the others if--"
"It-- hasn't ended well," Youji said, a little hurriedly. "People leaving when I've been... I mean..."
He regretted the clumsy attempt at elaboration even as he was making it. It was stupid, of course, all of it: that train of thought was clearly running on the rails of irrationality, or some such tortured metaphor, and the parallel was a silly one to draw, and why did he have to remember that now, anyway, of all things? This was not that building by the docks, nor that dark alleyway, and there were no pursuers, and it wasn't even as if Ken was a damsel in distress--
Not that Asuka had been--
Blood loss, he thought. He'd blame it on the blood loss.
Ken was staring at him in entirely warranted incomprehension. Youji attempted a grin; felt it falter and fail on his lips. Never mind, he thought, and said as much to Ken.
"Right. Sure." But Ken sat back down, his gaze not leaving Youji.
The familiar sound of a Porsche engine, several minutes later, was welcome for more than one reason.
-----
Youji ended up sprawled awkwardly in the back seat, half-cradled against Ken's chest. Not the most glamorous of positions, he had to admit. But it took the pressure off his leg and kept much of the blood off Aya's upholstery, so he supposed it would have to do.
"The hospital's not far," Aya said as he turned the key, uncharacteristically reassuring. The car roared to life.
"Hey, Ken."
"What?"
Youji grinned. "Don't worry. I'm not going to die on you."
He looked back down before he could see Ken's response. The car turned a corner, gathered speed. Omi was saying something from the front seat, doubtless something concerned or reassuring, but Youji had stopped listening. There would be time for sympathy and admonitions in the morning.
He let the grin fade. Up close, Ken smelled of sweat and smoke and blood, but the leather of his jacket was cool against Youji's cheek. Youji closed his eyes and hoped not to dream.
Recipient: vr2lbast
Title: Occupational Hazards
Rating: PG
Characters/Pairing(s): Ken, Youji
Summary: Ken doesn't deal well with botched missions. Youji is unsympathetic.
Warnings/Content: Language; true-to-canon medical inaccuracies.
Word Count: 1,567
Author's Notes: Kapitel era; passing references to the DIA drama CDs and episode 3.
"You know," Ken said, shifting his grip, "I'm getting pretty fucking tired of this."
The possible parameters of that announcement were broad, but Youji suspected he knew exactly what Ken was complaining about. It wasn't personal, he figured. Omi was the sort to blame himself, and Aya... well, who ever knew what Aya was thinking? But Ken got angry when missions went wrong. Simple as that. In a sense, the undisguised emotion was welcome: it was easy to understand, and less damaging to one's pride than Aya's cold efficiency.
Though Aya did make for a marginally better human crutch. It was probably the height difference.
"I share your sentiments," Youji said dryly. He did, as well: each painful, hobbling step was a reminder of his own incompetence. "I'll try not to get shot next time, shall I?"
Ken made a vague noise which Youji chose to interpret as forgiveness, or at least permission enough to lean a little heavier against the other man. If Ken noticed, he said nothing.
As far as bullet wounds went (and Ken was right, Youji thought; wasn't it pathetic that he'd had this much experience with them?), this wasn't too bad, especially for a shot to the thigh. Oh yes, there was the pain, and his mobility was compromised, but at least it had missed both bone and major arteries. If the rest of the mission had gone smoothly, it would have warranted little more than a disapproving footnote in Omi's mission report and several relaxing weeks of not killing anyone.
A pity, then, that the rest of the mission was a shambles.
Their part of it, anyway. Hitching a ride on a truck bound for the targets' headquarters was fine unless you were discovered. They'd destroyed the cargo, which was half the mission done, but the resulting chaos had left them stranded in the middle of a far-too-large industrial compound with far too little an idea of where they were. Then there was the matter of their non-functioning comm units, and the small inconvenience of having been shot in the leg. Which was why it had come to this: two lost assassins floundering in the dark.
At least Aya and Omi had taken out the targets, Youji thought. Probably. That was the half of Weiss you could count on.
His steps had been slowing, despite Ken's determined pace. Were they far enough from the truck's smouldering remains? Would there be security reinforcements? Youji couldn't be sure, but he was decreasingly inclined to care. If there were other guards, the most he and Ken could hope for was to escape immediate notice, and they could do that just as well leaning against a building as stumbling around.
Youji cleared his throat. "Not to get even more pathetic, but could we take a break? This isn't doing wonders for the bleeding."
-----
The ground was dusty and the wall against his back less than comfortable, but Youji wasn't complaining. They should probably bind the wound, he thought vaguely, glancing at his blood-soaked leg. But first things first: he fumbled in his pockets for a pack of cigarettes. Then, a lighter.
"For fuck's sake, Youji."
"I preferred it when you were calling my name in distress," Youji said mildly. "Very touching."
Ken scowled, rebuke forgotten. "Some guy shoots at you, you fall, what was I meant to think? Goddammit, Youji, I thought you were..."
Youji lit a cigarette and leaned back against the grimy wall.
"Fuck," Ken said, voice shaky with what might have been laughter. "How did we get into this mess?"
"Not memorising the compound's layout, for a start."
Ken ignored him. "This is crazy. I work in a fucking flowershop. The kids I play soccer with, they call me 'big brother' like they mean it. But it's Friday night, and the most normal thing about it is the part where I've killed half a dozen men. Most of them while I thought you were dead. You know what it's like, right? Cutting people down, all the while thinking, fuck, I should have been there, I should have stopped them before they shot him. I just-- I didn't expect this, okay. I didn't sign up to get covered in my teammates' blood."
Youji glanced over, but Ken was staring blankly out into the darkness. At least he wasn't staring at his bloodstained hands, Youji thought. He felt light-headed enough that such a dramatic gesture might have startled a laugh from him, and that didn't seem the most tactful response to a teammate having an existential crisis.
"Pretty sure most of that blood isn't mine," he offered. "Look. It's going to be fine, Ken. You've seen me worse than this."
"That meant to be reassuring?" There was anger, now, sudden and sharp, and Ken finally turned to meet Youji's gaze. "You think it makes me feel better that you almost get killed on a regular basis?"
"Hey, hey, I didn't think I was that bad at dodging bullets--"
"It scares me, alright? It scares me that we might go out one night and you or Aya or Omi won't make it back. That maybe I'll be too busy taking a target down to notice when one of you needs back-up." His eyes were bright, unfocused; Youji couldn't tell if they held desperation or fear or something darker. "That we'll be speeding down the road to the hospital but it'll be too late, and I'll have to watch Omi bleed to death in the back seat--"
"Ken."
"I have these dreams, right, these dreams of endless corridors of men with guns, and then I turn the corner and there's one of you, on the ground. If it was just that we were murderers-- if it was just the killing, that'd be one thing, but--"
"Ken."
Ken blinked; realised, with a start, that he'd been gripping the other man's shoulders. He drew back, hands shaking.
Youji settled back against the wall. The pain in his leg had faded to an insistent background burn. He had nothing to say to Ken's tirade, and no wish to think about it long enough to come up with a reply. Yeah, any of them could die on a mission. He knew that, in a detached sort of way, but his nightmares were made of different things.
He finished the cigarette, and then another, feeling oddly content with the situation: a half-pack of cigarettes to accompany an evening of slow but insistent blood loss.
At least no guards had appeared yet.
Beside him, Ken was taking the inactivity less well. He snapped his bugnuks out, sheathed them -- snapped them out again, almost trembling. Textbook study in frustration, Youji thought idly. He didn't feel in the mood to make another attempt at reassurance. It seemed perverse that the injured person would have to be the one doing so.
"How's this," Ken said, standing up abruptly. His claws were sheathed, at least. "Why don't you just stay here, and I'll head out to--"
"No."
The response, as unthinking as reflex, startled Youji himself; it certainly seemed to have startled Ken, who looked down at him with an expression halfway between surprise and annoyance.
"Look, I'm flattered that you like my company that much, but it's going to be tricky finding the others if--"
"It-- hasn't ended well," Youji said, a little hurriedly. "People leaving when I've been... I mean..."
He regretted the clumsy attempt at elaboration even as he was making it. It was stupid, of course, all of it: that train of thought was clearly running on the rails of irrationality, or some such tortured metaphor, and the parallel was a silly one to draw, and why did he have to remember that now, anyway, of all things? This was not that building by the docks, nor that dark alleyway, and there were no pursuers, and it wasn't even as if Ken was a damsel in distress--
Not that Asuka had been--
Blood loss, he thought. He'd blame it on the blood loss.
Ken was staring at him in entirely warranted incomprehension. Youji attempted a grin; felt it falter and fail on his lips. Never mind, he thought, and said as much to Ken.
"Right. Sure." But Ken sat back down, his gaze not leaving Youji.
The familiar sound of a Porsche engine, several minutes later, was welcome for more than one reason.
-----
Youji ended up sprawled awkwardly in the back seat, half-cradled against Ken's chest. Not the most glamorous of positions, he had to admit. But it took the pressure off his leg and kept much of the blood off Aya's upholstery, so he supposed it would have to do.
"The hospital's not far," Aya said as he turned the key, uncharacteristically reassuring. The car roared to life.
"Hey, Ken."
"What?"
Youji grinned. "Don't worry. I'm not going to die on you."
He looked back down before he could see Ken's response. The car turned a corner, gathered speed. Omi was saying something from the front seat, doubtless something concerned or reassuring, but Youji had stopped listening. There would be time for sympathy and admonitions in the morning.
He let the grin fade. Up close, Ken smelled of sweat and smoke and blood, but the leather of his jacket was cool against Youji's cheek. Youji closed his eyes and hoped not to dream.