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Kudou Youji hated waiting. Even with Weiß, he was always moving, either in a effort to avoid work, or to cater to his dubious addictions; Youji couldn't stand to sit still for long. His evasive manner came off as lazy, but in his line of work, impressions worked for you. He gripped the pane of the one window in his small room, figure covered with slatted shadows from the drawn blinds. He found that he could twist them open and closed, but not raise them. Not that the view was spectacular anyway. His room looked out onto another room, and, from the size of the figures moving on the floor below, he was on the second story of the Kritiker hospital. Further examination revealed that the building extended further up, too far for him to make out any rafters. The open area was crossed by layers of metal stairways, with white coated technicians making their busy ways back and forth during the day. He looked down from the window for a moment, staring at his other hand. Two days ago, he could have said it was a perfectly ordinary hands. Two days ago, he had been coming down from a drug haze that left little room for him to notice that his hands were indeed perfect. Years of training with wire had left more scars than skin. Those scars had been wiped clean, leaving unmarred flesh that he could barely acknowledge as his own. Youji examined his hands from every angle, trying each finger and as if it were some illusion. No pain from the overused joints and strained ligaments, no lacing scars across the base of the digits he wound the wire around for support. Perfect. Further examination revealed what looked like black lines tattooed into his left palm. They were thin and nearly invisible. He touched the lines with his fingers, curling his hand into a fist. And flung his arm away in horror as a small square of flesh pulled back like a sliding door. It was more than half an hour and a battle against tears later that he discovered the wire. The wire was slimmer than what he was used to. His familiar garrote was thicker, and nearly transparent. This filament slipped across his fingers with only the whisper of a touch. It would have been lost save for the fact that he could see it against his hands, could pick out the details of swirls and ridges that made up his fingerprints. If he concentrated hard enough he could see the pores on his skin... He had taken the acute vision in stride. After waking in a stark white hospital room, surrounded by tight lipped, yet attractive, Kritiker nurses, nothing surprised him. Well, his hand had, but now he treated the unnatural ability with mild disgust and curiosity. Drugged to the gills and beyond, body mummified in a fight wrap of gauze and Ace, Kudou Youji had cried. Whether it was from the incredible pain, or despair that he had indeed opened his eyes to find himself alive....or if he was overjoyed at another chance.... No. His capacity for surprise had been stolen by the wonder he felt with every breath, every heart beat more that he was able to live. Granted, his assassin's lifestyle hadn't been the career of his choosing, and many times he had thrown himself into missions with the same hopeful abandon that his teammates did: maybe this one would be the last. Somehow, he was sure that his second chance came without a price. He was able to move fairly quickly, his legs and arms achy from whatever the doctors had done to save him. What a mess he must have been... Water dripped in a steady pattern across his cheek, running in an annoying river straight into one nostril. Youji snorted forcefully, bringing himself to full consciousness, too tired to open his eyes. He lay quietly, taking a mental assessment of his injuries. Two arms, legs...eyes nearly blacked shut...whole lot of blood everywhere. He tried pulling his arms and found they were stuck tight, crucified to either side. He could still feel his fingers and the last stretch of his wire still curled in his fist. He tried moving his legs, surprised at the curious weight across them. It was too light to be stone, yet still enough to keep him from doing much more than wiggle his toes. He decided that maybe it was safe enough to open his eyes. Still just as dark as the backside of his eyelids. Damn. He began working his legs slightly, grimacing at the flashes of pain that arched through his hips. Something was at least fractured down there. Suddenly, something recognizable brushed against skin that had been exposed when the jags of rock tore away parts of his clothing. Human skin. Someone was here with him. Someone who was not moving. Youji held his breath until his heartbeat was loud in his ears. Nothing. His was the only sign of life... Youji screamed into the darkness, blood thick in his throat. He was pinned like a butterfly ready to be examined, his arms under two large blocks of stone, and his legs....there was a body across his legs... Youji passed his hand in front of his eyes, dispelling the horror of his entrapment. He had been conscious in the twisted wreck of the temple...for days, weeks, hours....he didn't care to wonder. It had been awful enough to stare into what he imagined was the slack face of the person...no, body that had paralyzed his legs with terror as well as dead weight. He leaned into the window frame, left hand coming up to scratch absently at the gauze that wrapped his torso, ending in a spiral at the juncture between his chin and neck. He hadn't tried to remove the white bandage, afraid of what it was covering. Everything but his face was masked, including his feet. A light blue pair of scrubs had been his clothing for the few days he'd been out of bed, though he'd hoped for a butt baring robe just to get some reaction out of his quiet nurses. He watched lazily as the people passed beneath his window, barely registering the familiar cascade of red hair walking towards his side of the building. It was another moment before recognition hit. Masaka... As if the figure had heard him, she looked up and smiled. He could almost hear the familiar footfalls on the steel lattice beneath her, and a ghost of her scent teased his memory. The door to his room opened, a nurse banging in with a tray in one hand. He left the window, catching her burden before it had a chance to fall to the floor. She smiled brightly, but said nothing as she motioned for him to sit on the bed. Youji studied the instruments on the tray. Scissors, a stitch kit, butterfly bandages, and two fair sized mirrors. His heart jumped painfully. She had come to remove the bandages. "Remove your clothes, Kudou-san." With a casual smirk, Youji slipped out of his robe and scrubs. "You know, ojou-san..." She touched a smooth finger to his lips. "I was told you were quite the sweet talker, Kudou-san. However, I'm just here to do my job." Youji did not argue further as her slim hands pushed him back onto the bed. She picked up the scissors and began cutting the material at his wrist and up to his shoulder, Her fingers trailed along behind the blade and Youji felt a familiar tightening in his groin. Nice to know some things hadn't changed. Youji closed his eyes, reassuring himself that it was just so he could enjoy the nurse's heated touch and not to hide from what he feared lay under the white gauze. The soft material slipped from his body, his arms and chest, then he was guided to stand, and his legs were freed. He was suddenly aware of being naked and half aroused, with the nurse's hand still on his hip. "Kudou-san. Miemasu ka?" Youji looked down at the soft question, catching his reflection in one of the mirrors. His thick blonde hair had been cut at some time in the past when he was unconscious. It was barely to his ears, yet still carefully trimmed. He took it from the nurse, and she moved around behind him. Together, they examined his body, the mirror in her hand allowing him to see the pale curves of his back and buttocks. All his fears were for nothing...and yet somehow confirmed. His body was slim, pale, and just as he remembered it. But where were the marks from his bullet wound when Asuka was killed? The scars from his ordeal in the temple? His torso was clear, showing nothing but toned muscles and a fine six pack of abs. His legs and arms bore no signs of the hard life he had lived as a private investigator and then assassin. His skin was flawless. Just like his hands. Perfect. ::owari two:: ::three:: pleasant nightmare |
