A word of warning: In later installments, this fic may verge on an exercise in maximalist writing. As I was taught, the premise of maximalism is, "Leaving nothing out, and a story will emerge from the muddle." This is me writing without telling myself to hold back or cut down, and it may become very wordy. That said, dear reader, please let me know if I get so verbose that I've lost you completely.

"I'd like to make my phone call, please."

The policeman glanced at the young woman in the detention cage. Her raven hair was matted with blood, locks knotted and half-ripped from her scalp. One strand trailed around a purple, swollen eye, glued to her forehead by sweat and grime. Yellowing discolorations in the shape of palms and fingers painted her skin. The sleeve of her tight babydoll tee was torn, dangling around her bicep, and her jeans bore fraying gashes along the thighs. She was tiny, no more than five-foot-two and probably not more than one hundred pounds wet. But the other eye focused on him clearly, burning in that pristine shade of blue at the center of a flame.

After a moment's hesitation, he crooked a finger at a fellow cop. They unlocked the gate and swung it open. "Approach slowly," the guard warned her. "We'll escort you."

She stood on bare feet, her ankles wobbly. The chains on the handcuffs clinked as she meekly extended her arms, but the eye scorched them as they each took her by a shoulder and steered her to the public phone, a wall-mounted canary-yellow monstrosity from the eighties. They released her. Chains jangling, she fumbled with the receiver, her hands too close together to handle the phone. She shouldered closer and contorted her wrists and arms to punch in the digits.

Ringing. Tone. Prerecorded instructions. Prompt.

"Kimiko Tohomiko," she murmured.

More ringing. She counted them:

One.

A sniff from the cop on her left.

Two.

Whistling from the detention cage behind her.

Three.

The clickety-click, clickety-click, clickety-click of someone stalling on their paperwork.

Fou-

"There a reason I'm gettin' a collect call at three-thirty-two in the mornin'?"

His voice was drowsy, indignant, the usual drawl reduced to a slur. Her fingers curled around the receiver.

"Clay? It's me."

That got him awake. "Kimiko?" He pronounced her name as if he had trouble wrapping his tongue around the syllables.

"Listen, I need a place to stay for a while." She hesitated. "A long while." Her volume dropped; her tone softened. "Can I come over?"

No hesitation: "Always."

Kimiko showed up at the doorstep of his semi-detached some five hours later, her knuckles white against the handle of her suitcase. The narrow windows framing the front door were reflective, and she gave herself a quick once-over. She looked cleaner. Ripped jeans were fashionable, anyway.

Her dented suitcase lagged on the ground behind her. She bent to heave it onto his stoop when the door opened. "Thought I heard a car pull up," Clay told her, tilting his cowboy hat with a spare hand. His eyes looked straight past the clean clothes to the ratty hair peeking out from under her hoodie, the stitches on her forehead, the swollen eye. A weak smile crossed her face, and he responded in kind, extending a hand. She took it, and he pulled her into a tight embrace. "It's been a long time," he murmured, taking care not to squeeze her.

She burrowed into his button-down shirt and let that be her response.

Releasing her, he hefted her suitcase onto a single shoulder and held the door open with his free hand. "Still a gentleman, I see?" she teased, entering the foyer.

"Naturally," he grinned. He reared back and pushed the door shut with his foot. "I made up the spare room for you. I'll take your things up - why don't you crash on the settee for a spell?"

She smiled. "Sounds heavenly."

He pointed down the hallway. "The sitting room's right down there, past the half-bath. You can't miss it - open concept." He waggled his brows at that, and she returned with a smirk. Tipping his hat, he adjusted her suitcase and started up the stairs.

For a moment, she stood in the foyer, absorbing her surroundings: a hand-knit welcome mat; crown, shoe, and chair molding painted a crisp country white; low-gloss wood tones for every floor; masculine greens, blues, and neutrals on each wall, softened by decorative heirloom china. She walked down the entranceway, past the half-bath, and into a great room. Glancing to her left, she immediately recognized the couch Clay had spoken of: a plush, fading sofa with a red-and-gold paisley print, framed by two ruddy leather highbacks. She sank onto the couch, and a sigh bubbled up from within her chest. Her eye fluttered closed, and she drifted in and out of consciousness for some time.

A latch clicked, but she dismissed it, curling into herself. She barely registered the shoes dropping to the tray or the paper rustling or the feet padding down the hall. But she heard the voice:

"The hell?"

She jerked into an uncomfortable half-seated, half-lying position, her fingers clutching her hood. Her eye blazed at the source of the question. He was tan and athletic, almost as tall as Clay, with tousled dark hair defined by a sharp widow's peak. He cradled a loaded paper grocery bag in one arm, and it crinkled as he shifted his stance. Emerald eyes flashed at her.

"Clay?" he called, holding her gaze defiantly. "What's with the hobo on our couch?"

"Excuse me?" Kimiko demanded, vaulting off the sofa. "You want this 'hobo' to kick you in the family jewels?"

A thundering of feet, and Clay skidded around the corner in between them. "Jesus, Rai, you really need to learn to shut your trap," he hissed, resting a hand on Kimiko's shoulder. He inhaled, then: "Kim, this is my buddy, Raimundo. Rai, this is Kimiko - my oldest friend."

They glared at each other over Clay's outstretched arm. A long second passed. Raimundo looked away first. "Yeah, whatever." He shifted his gaze back to her, avoiding her bad eye. "You grew up with Clay, then?"

She pushed a matted chunk of hair behind her ear demurely, but her tone was sharp: "We went to high school together."

His brows raced for his hairline. "Really? The swanky one?"

"Kimiko's gonna be stayin' with us 'til she gets back on her feet," Clay interrupted, blocking her advance with his arm. The set of his shoulders dared Raimundo to say anything as he asked, "That won't be a problem now, will it?"

Raimundo raised his hands in surrender, the grocery bag crunching. "Hey, dude, I pay you rent, not the other way around." He cast a quick look in Kimiko's direction, and his eyes flickered towards her blackened one. "Sorry. I have brain-to-mouth disease."

She only stared at him, so he brushed past them both to the kitchen, dumping the bags on the counter and busying himself with a clatter of pots and pans. Clay caught her eye, and he led her to the stairs.

"Sorry 'bout Rai," Clay said as they reached the upper landing. "He's not so bad if you know how to handle him."

Kimiko let out a derisive snort. "I can only imagine."

"Look, I know he'll make you more ornery than my granddaddy's mule, but he's my friend." Clay paused in front of her room, his hand on the doorknob. "And speaking of mules-" His voice lowered. "-you wanna tell me why you look like you've been kicked by one?"

Kimiko blinked at him, then sighed. "Makoto."

She felt rather than heard the fury in his words. "Are you kiddin' me?"

"Relax," she murmured, pressing a palm to his arm. "I took care of it."

He yanked on the collar of her hoodie, revealing the bruises, the torn t-shirt. "This don't look like taking care of it," he snapped.

"I said, 'relax'." Another sigh. "Remember how he wouldn't shut up about that wall he wanted to blow out?" Her lips twisted into a smile. "Let's just say I started the demo for him. With his head." He still glared at her, but she saw a flicker of pride in his eyes, and she ventured, "Look, Clay, you know I'm not that stupid. He never laid a hand on me until last night."

Clay exhaled, and the anger left with his breath. "I still can't believe you let that dirty snake lay a hand on you, period," he muttered as he opened the door.

"What was that?" she demanded, grabbing his arm.

"Nothin'." At a normal volume, he continued, "I tried to remember what colors you liked, but..." He rubbed the back of his head, knocking his hat forward. "Well, I kinda forgot. So I just picked somethin' girly."

The walls were a light gray with a charcoal carpet, accented by the house's white molding: generic neutrals for a guest room. But sheer curtains had been strewn haphazardly about the windows, and a white-and-lavender quilted comforter was draped over the shabbily made bed. Her suitcase leaned against a weathered, hand-painted vanity, and although there was no closet, a matching armoire sat kitty-corner opposite the door. A cushy purple chair and two lavender lamps on the end tables completed the room.

"You don't like it."

His disappointment broke her reverie, and she beamed at him. "No, it's perfect." She pressed a quick kiss to his cheek, and he thumbed his hat.

"Kimiko, you're gonna make me blush!" he laughed, but he flipped her hood in a brotherly manner and ushered her inside. She trailed a finger along the vanity.

"Wasn't this your mother's old furniture?"

He shrugged. "I gave her a call around four o'clock and picked 'em up. Couldn't have you comin' home to a room with a bed and a couple storage bins, could I?" Puffing out his chest, he pointed out the armchair. "I bought that last minute, though. Hope you don't mind the fact that it's a floor model."

His obvious pride was irresistible. "You did great, Clay," she praised. "It's me."

"Well-" He cut himself off and sniffed the air. "Is that-?" Another sniff, followed by a frown. "Come on."

Together, they trekked down the stairs. "Rai?" Clay called. "Tell me you're not burnin' down the kitchen again."

Raimundo flung his arms wide. "Come on, dude, will you ever let that go?" He pointed with a spatula at the set table. "I made apology breakfast."

A grin split Clay's face. "Flank steak, a half-dozen eggs, and a plate of hash browns?"

"You know it." Raimundo extended a fist, and Clay rapped his knuckles on the way to the table. Rai shifted his attention to Kimiko. "There's apology breakfast for you, too."

She pursed her lips, but she eyed the table all the same. Two Belgian waffles, topped by sliced bananas and a rosette of whipped cream, taunted her. Her shoulders relaxed, and she seated herself opposite Clay, taking the plate. "Do I dare ask?" she droned, reaching for a fork.

Raimundo set his own plate on the table and slid into a seat. "It's a college thing," he explained.

"He flew my hat from the flagpole," Clay clarified between bites.

"And it was hilarious," Rai elaborated.

"You didn't think it was so hilarious once I locked you out of the dorm with nothin' but your drawers on," Clay countered, a playful smirk stretching his face.

Raimundo dipped some wheat toast into his eggs. "Anyway, I told the big guy here I'd buy him breakfast to get back into the room." He gave Clay a rueful smile. "One empty wallet later, and voila! Apology breakfast was born." He jabbed a fork in Clay's direction. "And it was too hilarious."

Kimiko arched a brow at them. "Okay then..." They ate in silence for a while before she spoke again. "So you two met in college?"

Clay nodded. "Freshman roommates."

"Turned forever roommates," Raimundo joked, stacking the empty plate of hashbrowns on top of his own.

"Hey now, partner, you're the one crashin' my bachelor pad," Clay called as Raimundo headed for the dishwasher.

"Yeah, the bachelor pad with Auntie Em's favorite dish set on the walls." The plates clinked, and Raimundo leaned on the counter, arms crossed. "You see what I have to deal with here?" he appealed, grinning at Kimiko.

She managed a wry twist of her lips as she passed her plate to him. He laid it in the washer with the others. Clay's fork scraped on his dish.

"So, ah..." Clay and Kimiko turned to Raimundo expectantly, but he became absorbed with a stain on the counter and avoided their eyes as he spoke. "What exactly... happened... here?" He gestured vaguely in Kimiko's direction, then seemed to think better of himself and murmured, "If you don't mind my asking."

Clay sawed at the remainder of his steak, the brim of his hat a barrier against them. Brushing a stray hair out of her face, Kimiko fixed her good eye on Raimundo. "I do mind you asking."

He watched her for a moment, and she glared at him in response. Clay scraped the last of the food from his plate. "I-"

"Drop it, Rai," Clay cautioned darkly.

"Alright, alright," Raimundo retorted, raising his hands again. "Jeez." Clay only held out his dish, and Rai took it and tossed it in with the rest. The door shut with a loud whud, and the washer chugged to life and rumbled pleasantly at them. "Anyway," Raimundo said, "I have to go pick up Omi in a few." He cocked a brow at Clay. "You mind if he comes over again? He keeps bugging me about chess."

Clay shook his head, unable to resist a grin. "He's still on about that?"

"I keep trying to tell him he won't win, but-" Rai shrugged just as he caught Kimiko's confused expression. A soft smile crossed his face. "Ah. Right. Omi's my little bro. Well," he caught himself, "not really. He's my Little with the Big Brothers Big Sisters program." He checked his watch. "Aaand I'm going to be totally late picking him up." He snatched some keys off the counter and strode for the hall, but he stopped in the door frame and considered Kimiko, focusing on her black eye. "You know what? I'll take him to the park today. We'll play some soccer," he tossed over his shoulder, and seconds afterward, the door shut behind him.

Kimiko stared in his wake, then turned to gape at Clay. "Him? Seriously?"

Clay smirked and tapped her chin with his knuckle. "Close your mouth. It ain't ladylike."

She swatted his hand away. "How could anyone look at that jerk and think 'role model'?"

With a shrug, Clay stood and motioned toward the living room. "They've been Big and Little for as long as I've known Rai," he explained as she followed him to the couch. "He told me they got matched on account of them being ESL, but I think the fact that Rai's younger than your average Big had a lot to do with it."

Kimiko shook her head. "I guess I'll believe it when I see it."

Clay grinned. "I'll bet." He paused, considering his words, then: "Listen, I've gotta head up to school, run some errands. I wasn't plannin' to, what with you movin' in, but..." He searched her face. "Well, you seem pretty alright, considerin'. You don't mind, do you?"

"Of course not," she replied hurriedly. "I'm sure this is a huge inconvenience-"

"It's nothin' of the kind," he answered, ruffling her hood. "You make yourself comfortable while I'm out, alright? Unpack and all that."

She nodded, and he stood, stretching his arms over his head. "Wait- Clay." He glanced at her, and she fumbled her words. "Just... um... thanks. For, y'know-" She gestured to the house. "-everything."

He gave her a soft look, and his hand reached out to rub her shoulder. "Well, I wasn't plannin' on sayin' 'I told you so' - but you know I'd been waiting three years for that call." His thumb grazed her cheek, right under her black eye. "I just didn't imagine you'd look like this when you got here."

About this fic: I'm a little afraid to post this, as it's something of an experiment. It also happens to have the plot of a Lifetime Movie of the Week. In other words, it's a Hurt/Comfort AU.

Don't run away yet! Let me explain:

I'm a little disturbed by the number of Hurt/Comfort fics - often AUs - in which fiery, no-nonsense, tough-as-nails Kimiko gets abused by some dope so Raimundo can come to her rescue (or, occasionally, the reverse). I understand that this is the basic premise of Hurt/Comfort - someone gets hurt, someone comforts (duh). However, Kimiko is not the sort of character that would suffer abuse lightly, nor would she happily accept another's 'comfort'.

I believe that a Hurt/Comfort fic - even a Hurt/Comfort AU - can be executed without ignoring these basic aspects of her character. So, I've decided to try my hand at it.

Let me know what you think, and as always, thanks for reading.