The sound of frantic, heavy pounding awakened Hank from an uneasy, restless sleep. He rolled over and reached for the clock that sat on the floor next to his futon. He fumbled briefly with it in the dark, but, after a few seconds, he succeeded in grabbing it. Muttering in irritation, he rolled back over onto his back and held the timepiece over his head, a few inches away from his eyes. At first glance, it appeared to read 4 A.M., but Hank thought that couldn't be right. He shook his head slightly and rubbed at his sleep-bleared eyes before again looking at the clock.
'Nope,' he thought, as he tossed the clock back over to the side of his futon, 'It really is fucking four in the A.M.' He placed his hand over his face, so that he could see a small sliver of ceiling through the space between his fingers. When the pounding started again, he sighed and grumbled under his breath, "What the fuck is with all the damn noise? Must be those damn kids that live down the hall. Third time this week." He sighed and rolled over so that he could get up and make his way to the kitchen area of his little one-bedroom apartment, stumbling over the shoes and clothing littering the floor. The pounding resumed as he neared the kitchenette, and Hank stopped to stare dumbly at the doorway, realizing, for the first time, that the noise was coming from his door.
When the pounding silenced and then resumed again, Hank finally managed to force his feet, which almost seemed to be glued to the floor, to carry him toward the door. He couldn't help but remember the last unexpected visitor he had had --- the red-haired German with the sneaky, evil smile and silky, deadly-soft voice who had forced him to betray Ran. He really didn't want a repeat of that visit, and he stopped inches away from the door to stare at it as if it was some kind of evil demon come from hell to devour him.
But, the incessant pounding continued, and, afraid whoever was at his door would wake up the rest of the tenants on this floor, Hank called out, with a shaking voice, "Who who is it?"
Hank didn't know whether he should be relieved or even more afraid when he heard Yohji's voice snap from the other side of the door, "It's me. Open up."
With shaking hands, Hank hesitantly opened the door a crack, just large enough to peer through. When he looked into it, he found himself face-to-face with Yohji. The tall blonde's ever-present sunglasses had slipped down low on his nose, and he glared at Hank over the tops of the lenses. Hank could see the other man's jade green eyes sparkling with anger and something closely resembling hatred, and he involuntarily took a step backward, swallowing hard as he did. As Hank backed away, shock and fear plainly written on his face, Yohji jammed his foot into the crack and nudged the door open slightly wider. His heavy, leather boot made a scraping noise as he slid it across the floor. Within seconds, a huge, square, black head shoved its way through the door, swinging it wide and causing it to slam loudly against the near wall as Bubba came trotting into the room and, with a satisfied grunt, settled himself comfortably in the middle of Hank's floor.
"Move out of the way and let us in," Yohji snapped, drawing Hank's attention from the big, black dog back toward the doorway.
Yohji turned sideways and shouldered his way into the apartment. Once he was inside, he paused for a few moments to glare at Hank before turning around to look around the apartment. Spotting the table in the kitchen area, he tilted his head in that direction and said, "Clear the shit off that table." He started back toward the doorway, and paused to look back at Hank, who was still standing next to Bubba, staring at him, and snapped, "Now!"
He retreated back to the hallway, and, with his back to the door, bent down to retrieve something he had left sitting in the shadows. When he returned, Hank realized, for the first time, Yohji wasn't alone. He held Aya in his arms, and the redhead was still and quiet, lying limply against the tall blonde's shoulder.
"Oh my G Ran. What happened? Yo Yohji, what what happened to Ran?" Hank stammered, shocked at the sight of Aya. The younger man was ghostly pale, soaking wet from the rain outside, and trembling. Hank couldn't even tell if he was breathing or not, and he stepped forward to gently brush at Aya's face. "R Ran?" he whispered. The redhead's skin was ice cold when he touched it. "Ran? Are are you all right?" He looked over Aya's limp body to Yohji and asked, "What what happened? What happened to him?"
"Didn't I tell you to move that shit off the table?" Yohji snapped. He glared at Hank once again, over the tops of his sunglasses, and his eyes were hard, cold, and deadly.
Hank found himself involuntarily stepping backward once again, in an effort to escape Yohji's cold, hateful presence. He had always, somehow, felt he should be wary of the tall blonde, even when Yohji acted friendly and faced him with a smile. He had sensed there was a lot more to the man than there seemed to be on the surface; it was the same way he felt with all of them. Somehow, he had always known they weren't what they appeared to be. When Yohji didn't move from his position just inside the doorway, but continued to glare daggers at him, Hank backed away toward the table.
"S sorry," he stammered, as he used both hands to sweep the items littering the table top to the floor. Apples, oranges, a few stray pieces of silverware, two tin plates, yesterday's paper, and several unwashed coffee cups made a loud noise as they clattered to the floor. Hank jumped at the sound, and turned back to Yohji as he said, "OK. Here. Table's clean."
Shoving him roughly aside, Yohji moved past him to drop Aya onto the table. Although he made an effort to deposit his burden gently, the redhead dropped through the air a couple of inches and hit his head roughly on the tabletop. Aya groaned at the impact, and Hank saw Yohji visibly wince.
The tall blonde leaned over his injured friend and gently stroked Aya's hair. "Shhh," he whispered, placing his forehead against Aya's, "Shhh. It's all right. You're all right."
Once Aya quieted, Yohji began the task of unbuttoning the olive colored coat the redhead was wearing. Hank recognized it as the coat Aya had stolen from him, and, with a smile, he remembered his first meeting with the quiet redhead. The happiness of that fond memory was quickly replaced by guilt when he also remembered how he had betrayed the younger man. He watched in silence as Yohji finished opening up the coat and stripped it off of Aya, gently lifting the redhead into a sitting position in the process, and he sucked in his breath sharply when he saw the ugly red stain discoloring the side of Aya's sweat shirt.
"What what happened?" he asked again, stepping toward the table. "Yohji, what the hell happened to him?"
Yohji turned and looked at him briefly, almost as if he had forgotten Hank was still in the room. The blonde had pulled his sunglasses off his face and tossed them onto one of the nearby counters, and Hank could see worry, exhaustion, and, even, a hint of rage in the other man's eyes. He had to admit that, of all his employers, he had always feared Yohji the most. The tall blonde always seemed jovial and easy-going, but Hank had had occasion to see another side of him. He had seen it months ago, in the alley, when Yohji had pulled him off of Aya and had almost cut his throat in the process, and he had seen it several days ago, when Yohji had attacked him in the flower shop, only to be stopped by Ken. Hank knew that, where Aya was concerned, Yohji was almost the definition of an over-protective older brother, and he knew the blonde wouldn't hesitate to kill anyone who threatened the redhead, no questions asked, and no guilt afterward. Hank had the feeling none of the four men he had worked for should really be messed with; they all seemed dangerous, even Omi, although he was just a kid. Still, this overprotective quality, in his opinion, made Yohji the most dangerous of the four, since it effectively removed any moral barriers the tall blonde might otherwise have. Hank swallowed. He couldn't ever remember being this afraid, not even the first time he had met Yohji, and the blonde had held a knife to this throat, but he stood his ground and stared back at Yohji, hoping his fear didn't show through his eyes.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Yohji said, by way of answer to his question, "Water. Boil some now."
Hank stared at the blonde for a few seconds, but, when Yohji turned back toward Aya, he decided he wasn't going to get any answers, at least not right then. Considering the blonde's unstable and angry temper at the moment, Hank decided the safest course of action would be to do as the other man instructed. Without another word, he moved toward the sink to fill a kettle with water. He turned the stove burner to its highest setting and left the kettle there to boil, and then turned back to watch Yohji.
Aya was too tall to fit completely on the table, so his legs dangled over one edge. Yohji bent to lift first one leg and then the other, so that he could pull off the heavy boots the redhead wore. Then, he bent down and fumbled in his own boot for a moment, until he pulled out the large knife Hank remembered from their first meeting, flicking the blade into place as he jerked it out of his boot. Hank stepped backward, afraid that Yohji was planning to use the knife on him, and he eyed the door, as if he was trying to decide whether he should make a run for it, and, if he did, whether he would make it before the blonde was on him. Yohji ignored him, though, and bent over Aya once more. He gently slid the knife beneath the redhead's sweat shirt and tugged slightly upward, until the material parted like hot butter under the sharp blade. He carefully cut away the material, until he had exposed the ugly, gaping hole in Aya's side, and then he bent down to examine it more closely. Hank could hear him muttering curses under his breath as he poked and prodded at the wound.
Aya groaned, whimpered, and tried to scoot away from Yohji as the blonde's hands moved gently over his injured side.
"Shhh," Yohji hissed, gripping the redhead's shoulder to make him be still. "If you can hear me, Aya, you have to lie still, or the bullet will move." He paused long enough for Aya to stop squirming away from him, and then continued his examination of the wound. "Shit, you're a fucking mess," he whispered. "I shoulda just left you outside in that pile of garbage, for all the trouble you're causing me."
The words sounded harsh, but Hank could see the fond smile that barely crossed the blonde's mouth, and Yohji's last statement was immediately followed by a whispered plea, "You're not going to fucking die on me, Aya. You're not."
Just as Hank started to move forward, to offer what assistance he could, the kettle whistled, signaling that the water inside was finally boiling. Yohji left Aya long enough to cross the short distance to the stove. He never looked at Hank; it was almost as if he had forgotten about the other man's presence in the room. He touched the kettle lid, barely stifling a cry of pain when he burned his fingers. He jerked his hand away, although his fingers dragged the lid off, sending it to the floor with a rather loud clang. Hissing and muttering under his breath, Yohji grabbed a cup towel off of the counter, and, after he dropped the knife into the boiling water, he used the towel to pick up the hot lid and replace it on the kettle. He turned his back to the stove, leaning back against the counter closest to the appliance, and gave Hank a narrow-eyed glare, as if he had just remembered that the other man was there with him. Internally, Hank cringed away from the hard, angry look in Yohji's eyes, but he resolutely stood his ground and refused to physically move away. He hoped, for the millionth time since his two former employers' sudden arrival at his apartment, that the fear he felt didn't show on his face or in his eyes. Apparently, it didn't, because the tall blonde shrugged slightly and then fumbled in his pocket for a few seconds, eventually drawing out a package of cigarettes. He shook out one of the smokes, and lit it, cupping his hands around his lighter's flame. He took a couple of long drags on the cigarette, holding the smoke in his mouth for a few seconds before blowing it out in a long, white stream that hovered in the air around his head like a stringy cloud before dissipating. Yohji removed the cigarette from his mouth and flicked the ashes off of the end of it with his pinky before replacing it and taking another long drag. Hank watched the ashes descend to the floor. It took them so long to fall that he almost felt like he was watching it happen in slow motion.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Yohji sighed and asked, "You got medical supplies?"
"What?" Hank asked. He had the terrible feeling he was running as fast as he could, but that he'd still never catch up to Yohji. "What happened? What what's going on here?"
Yohji looked back toward the redhead lying on the table. He flicked more ashes onto the floor and sighed out, in a tired voice, "Aya he's been shot. Bullet's still in him. I'm going to have to take it out." He sighed and then continued, irritably, "Do you have medical supplies?"
Hank stared at him for a few seconds, until Yohji ducked his head, widening his eyes and raising his eyebrows in an irritated, questioning gesture. At that moment, he shook his head, as if he could make this all go away by simply clearing his mind, and replied, "No."
Yohji sighed irritably. He took another long drag from the cigarette, flicked more ashes onto the floor, and turned to fumble around on the counter for a piece of paper and a pencil. Once he had located the desired items, he quickly wrote some things down, and then, just as quickly, crossed the floor to stand in front of Hank. He grabbed the Texan's shirt to prevent him from escaping when Hank tried to back away from him, and he shoved the scribbled list into Hanks' hand.
"Then, go." When Hank still stood there, staring at him, he sighed and flicked more ashes onto the floor before releasing his hold on the Texan's shirt and saying, as if it was the most reasonable thing in the world, "Go get that stuff."
"Wait just a damn minute!" Hank snapped. "You'd better tell me what the fuck is going on, and I mean right now!"
Yohji whirled away from him and walked the few steps it took for him to stand in between Hank and the table where Aya still lay. "What's going on is this," he hissed, "Aya and me well, all of us, really, are involved in some very bad shit with some very bad people. And, now, you are, too. Aya he thinks that you don't know what you're involved with, that you don't know about any of this, and that you you had a good reason for what you did." He paused, as Hank stared at him, his mouth dropping open in shock and surprise, and said, with a little chuckle, "Oh, yeah Aya knows what you did, that you were the one who betrayed him. It couldn't have been anyone else, you see?" He walked around to the other side of the table, so that it was now in between him and Hank, and leaned his weight against it, on outstretched arms, palms flat against its surface, and continued, "Me? Oh, I wanted to kill you. I wanted nothing more than to choke the life out of you for what you'd done to him, to feel your life ending under my hands." He looked up briefly at Hank and smiled at the frightened expression he saw on the man's face. "Oh, and I I could have done it, too. But, Aya Aya thought you had a good reason. Now, though, Aya he's being hunted, you see? Because of things I did because of things you did. Even if even if we had good reasons, it won't matter, if he dies. It won't matter at all. You see, I didn't I didn't want to come here, but there wasn't any other choice, because they don't know about you. They won't find us here, at least, not right away, and that'll give us the time we need time I need to help him. And, if you don't get off your ass and go get those fucking supplies so I can dig this bullet out of him well, he's gonna bleed to death, and you," he looked up at Hank with a frightening, evil little smile, and continued, "you, my friend, will get to see what Heaven looks like or Hell who knows where you might actually go." He paused and looked down at Aya's still, limp figure, and whispered, as he gently smoothed the redhead's bangs out of his face, "Because, you see, Aya is the only reason you're still alive. If he dies nothing will save you." He straightened then, and said, in a quiet, frightening voice, "So, I'd advise you to get me whatever I want. You'll help me keep him alive. You were part of getting him into this mess, and, now, you're gonna be part of getting him out of it."
Hank glanced down at the list he still had clutched in his hand. "B but, I I don't know where to get this stuff," he stammered.
Yohji glared at him. "Beg, borrow, steal, or give birth to it. I don't care. But, you'd better get it and get it fast, if you want to stay alive."
Hank stared at Yohji for a second, and then muttered, "I'll I'll be back as soon as I can. Just just let me grab a coat."
As he pulled on his coat and headed out the door, he heard Yohji mutter after him, "Good idea. You wouldn't want to catch a cold or anything."
*****************************************************
Yohji pulled one of the table's chairs next to it and sat down heavily, leaning his elbows on the tabletop and resting his head in the cupped palms of his hands. He knew Hank had only left about ten minutes ago, but it seemed like the man had been gone forever, almost as if he had never existed in this world, to begin with. Yohji sat at that table and watched his unconscious friend until his whole world seemed to swirl, like water running down a drain, and then coalesce into nothing more than the two of them and this kitchen. Nothing existed in this world except this one moment, this one small place, which contained only this table and his badly injured friend, and there were no sounds except for the kettle's soft whistling, and Aya's ruptured, strained breathing. Yohji stared at Aya and willed, with all his strength, the redhead to keep breathing, to keep living. Each time Aya struggled to take a shallow breath, there would be a heart-wrenchingly long pause afterward, and, each time, Yohji would hold his own breath, as if, by doing that, he could encourage the redhead to continue living, letting it out in a long sigh of relief when another shaking breath finally came from Aya to break the eerie silence.
Yohji finally rested his head on the table, pillowing it on his crossed arms. He was surprised to feel hot tears gathering in his eyes and, then, spilling down his cheeks. He hadn't even realized he was crying, but, now that he knew, he also knew he wouldn't be able to stop. The tears would continue to come, unbidden, for as long as they wanted, and he was powerless to do anything about it, just like, deep inside, he knew he was powerless to keep Aya alive. He had been around enough death to realize that Aya's making it was a long shot. The redhead was already weak from the injuries he had suffered during Schuldich's recent attack, not to mention that he hadn't ever fully recovered from the pneumonia he had caught out in the rain on that last mission. Yohji had known, the moment he had seen the wound, that it was bad. The bullet was still inside, lodged up against one of Aya's ribs; he had felt it there, and it was in a very bad place. Plus, Aya had already lost so much blood. From the looks of the stains covering his sweat shirt, it appeared the wound had bled almost continuously. Yohji had managed to get it to stop, once they had arrived here, but it could well prove to be a case of too little, too late.
Maybe that was why he was crying, or, maybe it was just a result of all of the pent-up anger and frustration he'd felt for the past few months; Yohji didn't really know, and, at this point, he didn't really care. He did know, though, that he hadn't been able to protect Aya --- not from Schuldich, not from Kritiker, and not even from himself. And, that last thought, the realization that he was so greatly at fault in Aya's current predicament, stung the most --- almost as much as the realization that he really couldn't do anything about it; he couldn't do anything to make it better, to make it go away, to fix it. Right now, all he could do was sit here in this little, dingy kitchen, listen to the sound of the kettle whistling on the stove, wish for Aya to not die, and pray that God or someone heard him.
Yohji thought about that for a minute, and wondered when, exactly, he had stopped believing in God. He hadn't even realized it, but, now that he thought about it, it seemed like he hadn't believed for a very, very long time. He remembered, when he was a kid, his mom would take him to church; hell, he'd even been in the choir. Yeah, Yohji Kudou, a choir boy ---- what a fucking joke, right? He could also remember, when he was a bit older, in his teens, maybe, searching for answers, for some sort of "truth", for something to believe in, some universal force that guided people and cared for them and protected the weak and the sick from the strong and the unscrupulous, some universal good that cared what happened to you ---- whether it was called God, or Buddha, or Allah. But, he hadn't found it. Instead, he had found Weiss, and, down that path, the path he was on now, there wasn't anything except death, and more death. Now, though, Yohji desperately wanted to believe, and, for all the good it would do him, considering the many sins he must have on his hands, not to mention that Aya's hands weren't exactly clean, either, he sent his desperate plea heavenward --- that Aya would survive this, just as he had survived so many other things during his life.
"He's strong," Yohji muttered, almost under his breath, and to no one in particular, since there wasn't anyone else in the room with him, except for Aya, who wasn't really in any condition to hold a conversation. He looked toward the ceiling and repeated, "He's strong. You hear me? He's been through worse, you know, and, even after everything, he's still a good man. This wasn't his choice. It wasn't any of our choices. It wasn't a life we wanted. It's not fair to make it end like this, to make him pay for something that wasn't his fault, and that he never wanted, to begin with."
But, even as he said it, something whispered in his mind that it might not have been something they chose, but, still, none of them had ever tried to walk away; none of them had ever tried to stop doing Persia's bidding, to stop killing, even though they, surely, had to know it was wrong. Yohji frowned and waved his hand in disgust at the little voice, hoping to silence it. What was it, anyhow? A conscience? He'd have thought he would have lost that long ago but, still, it was there, whispering to him --- things that he didn't want to hear, things that he knew, but didn't want to know.
Yohji waved his hand at the pesky little voice one more time, and muttered, "Shut the hell up. I sure don't need to hear from you now."
He sighed and leaned back in his chair, until his head hung over its back, and he stared at the ceiling. He pulled out another cigarette, but, instead of lighting it, he only rolled it around in his fingers before putting it, unlit, into his mouth. Yohji put one hand over his face, so that he was looking at the ceiling through the spaces between his fingers, and smiled as he thought that, if Aya died, he would definitely kill Hank. He wasn't sure, but he figured he had made up his mind about that a long time ago --- possibly right after Schuldich attacked the redhead. In Yohji's mind, it was just inevitable that he would end up taking Hank's life, as if he and their former employee were joined together by some invisible thread of fate.
Yohji hadn't really had anything against the other man, not until he had betrayed Aya. He had even liked the amiable Texan, but, now, when he thought about killing him, he found he was sort of looking forward to it. That was an unsettling thought; he had become so used to killing that he didn't even dread taking the life of someone who had been his friend. He thought about Ken, and how the ex-goalie had been so heart broken at killing his old friend, Kase, even after the guy had betrayed him so many times, and about how Omi had been reluctant to kill his brother, even after everything the guy had done to him, and he wondered if, maybe, he wasn't like them, if, maybe, he wasn't as good of a person as they were. Suddenly, he realized that he really hadn't ever had any misconceptions about the kind of person he was; there was no way he could be a good person and do what he did. Good people didn't kill other people, that's all there was to it, even if they thought they had a good reason for it. But, did that mean that Ken, Omi, and, even Aya, were bad people? After all, they killed, too.
Then, Yohji's mind drifted across a stray memory --- a dark alley, months ago, where he had silenced Weiss' target, only to realize that the man's little daughter had seen him. He could still see the look of fear and pain in the little girl's eyes, and he still felt sick over it. He hadn't ever told any of the other guys, and he had buried the memory so deeply that he had almost forgotten about it completely. No wonder; it was still too new, too raw, but, he remembered how he had grieved over destroying that little girl's life, grieved like he hadn't thought he was capable of doing, and he realized he wasn't any different from the rest of them. None of them were really good, but, maybe, they weren't really bad, either. So, what did that make them? If Aya was conscious, he knew the redhead would glare at him, shake his head, and tell him to not think on it too much; they were just necessary, that's all. A necessary evil --- that was what Aya always called them.
Still, Yohji couldn't help but wonder whether or not the fact that he felt, very strongly, that he would be able to kill Hank so easily meant that he could also kill Omi, or Ken, or, even, Aya. After all, Hank was his friend once, just like the rest of his team, and he didn't even bat an eye at the thought of killing the Texan. Did that mean he'd hunt down the others, at Persia's order? In his heart, Yohji knew he'd never be able to do that, even if it meant his own death at Kritiker's hands. The other three --- Ken, Omi, and, especially, Aya --- they were more than his friends; they were the only family he'd had for a long time, now. He felt a little better at realizing that he wouldn't be able to kill the rest of Weiss; maybe that meant he wasn't a total shit, after all. But Hank Hank was different. Yohji knew he'd kill that man, and he'd enjoy doing it, too, and that thought still scared him a little.
His little voice, or conscience, or whatever it was, whispered into his mind that killing Hank wouldn't change anything. It wouldn't make Aya well; it wouldn't take away the harm that had been done to the redhead, and, if Aya died, it wouldn't bring him back. But, Yohji shook his head at the pesky noise.
"Shut up," he told the little voice. "It won't change anything, but it'll sure as hell make me feel better." Suddenly, he realized that that one thought probably cancelled out all his previous prayers and well-wishes for Aya's health, and he scowled and muttered, "Shit. No wonder I'm not a good person. It's too fucking hard."
He sat there for at least twenty minutes more, trying hard not to think of anything, because he had already found that being lost in his own thoughts was too painful. Finally, when he heard Hank's keys rattle in the door lock, he sighed in relief and pushed into a standing position to face the other man, as he entered the apartment.
*********************************************************
Getting the bullet out wasn't easy. Yohji's hand shook as he used his knife to cut into Aya's flesh. Luckily, the redhead was so out of it that he didn't struggle or even make a sound as the blade cut through him to reach the bullet. Aya seemed to not even feel it at all, and Yohji wasn't sure if that was a good thing, or not. Once he had cut deep enough to reach it, he had found the damn bullet had actually shattered on impact. Part of it was lodged against Aya's rib, as he had first suspected, but part had also pierced his lung, and another part had shied away from the rib to burrow deeper into the redhead's body. It seemed to take forever to dig out all the fragments. Even after he had dumped them all into the bowl Hank had provided and reconstructed them into a whole bullet, Yohji still wasn't confident he'd gotten all the pieces. To make matters worse, the wound started to bleed again, and he had the hardest time getting it to stop. For a while, he had a sinking feeling he wasn't going to be able to stop the bleeding this time, and, for a few very scary moments, Aya stopped breathing, his heart stopped beating, and Yohji thought that they had finally lost him. In the end, he managed to bring the redhead back, but he didn't know whether Aya had the strength to pull through this or not.
Still, he knew had done all he could, for the moment, so he carefully mended the internal damage to the best of his ability, after which he carefully sewed up the wound, all the while mentally cursing himself, Hank, Kritiker, and everyone else who had made it impossible for him to take Aya to a hospital for proper treatment. The redhead deserved a lot more than an incompetent patch job on a dirty kitchen table, but fate seemed to be conspiring against them at every turn. He knew he should have just taken Aya to the hospital, no matter the consequences, but, deep inside, he knew that doing so would have sealed his friend's fate. Even if he avoided Kritiker's private medical facilities, he knew the hospitals would be one of the first places the organization would look for them, and Yohji knew Aya would have been dead before he even made it off the surgical table.
As he pulled the last stitch taut and then tightly bandaged the wound, Yohji looked up to see Hank watching him. The other man wore the strangest look on his face --- a mixture of fear, relief, worry, and, even awe. He frowned at Hank and asked, "What?"
"No nothing," Hank stammered, still very afraid of Yohji. "It's just I can't believe you just did that. Took a bullet out of him like it was nothing. What kind of fucking florist are you, anyhow?"
Yohji rolled his eyes and said, as he pulled the bandage tight and fastened it off, "Crappy. I'm a crappy florist. Frankly, I don't even like flowers." He paused and looked back toward Hank, and, seeing a question still lingering in the man's eyes, he decided to grace him with an answer. "It's not the first time that I've pulled a bullet out of someone," he said, moving to the sink to wash his hands. Over the sound of the running water, he continued, "It's not even the first time I've taken a bullet out of Aya. He gets into a lot of trouble, you know."
Hank realized he wasn't going to get any more of an explanation from the tall blonde, so he simply said, "Hnh. So, what comes now?"
Yohji turned from the sink, drying his hands on the cup towel that had been lying on the counter, and said, "Now we wait, and hope that he wakes up."
To be continued in "Redemption" ...