80 and Agent 18

Synopsis: He's the infamous 80— Intentional Superspy, Renowned Martial Artist, Mr. Suave, and, until most recently, the world's most drooled-over bachelor. And everybody—from the FBI to the CIA to SAS and MI6 and even the Yakuza, is dying to know who the lucky lady is. Except, it's not a lady. And Agent 18 will bite you to death if you ever mention the loss of both their single statuses ever again.

Notes: I do not know what I am writing, but this should be bordering crack. This is a oneshot that ended up into three parts because of how ridiculously long it was.

I have no idea how a wedding procedure goes when you register at those buildings and I'm a lazy shit who won't even bother to google it, so please, don't mind me. Also, you can't roll up the painting Starry Night, so ignore that little fact while reading. You'll understand why later.

Also: Happy Valentine's Day! I love you guys so much :') I read every review posted to any of my stories and I use them all as motivation to continue writing fanfics and my other stories. This is a thank you gift for all of you guys~

P.S. Can you guess who the other spies are by their code names? :'D

Disclaimer: I do not own Katekyo Hitman Reborn. Any similarities in events or characters living or dead are entirely coincidental.

Enjoy!

Chapter One

Two-Seven is currently laughing himself into an asthma attack on the floor of Yamamoto's flat, which, as all superspies from Organization V know, is a sign of the upcoming apocalypse.

"Oh my god," Two-Seven, who likes to be called Tsuna when he's off the clock or in bed with his boyfriend, chokes out between huffs of laughter. "Oh my god. You got married. You. You got married. You got married!"

"Yes, I'm aware of that," Yamamoto growls, pouring himself a cup of piping hot coffee to soothe his pounding hangover and a throbbing lump on his forehead. Tsuna's still laughing.

"You. You, the bachelor of all bachelors. Mr. Suave with all the ladies. What the hell, I'm pretty sure even Irie from Tech has minor fantasies about you and he once turned down a Russian playboy bunny so he could work on his Gola Moscas. But you got married!"

"I know," Yamamoto snaps, taking a gulp and scalding his tongue.

"To a guy!"

"Shut up," Yamamoto groans.

"To Agent 18!"

Yamamoto spins around and throws his coffee at Tsuna. He has a feeling that it's going to be a very long day.

It starts with a shitty forgery of the Starry Night by Vincent van Gogh with crayons.

No, backtrack a little. It starts with the time the network crashed at HQ and everybody got a freebie day to go out and go-kart or loosen the tops of all the salt shaker in all the feds' cafeterias, whatever.

But it all goes back to the stupid Starry Night, regardless.

Yamamoto was actually working for a change when Reborn leans over the top of his cubicle and says, "You need to go to London."

"No I don't," Yamamoto replies, scrolling down the page when he finishes reading the update on Madame Six and Signore Nine's latest mission. They are one of V's resident spy couples and a lot like Mr. and Mrs. Smith, except with more pineapples and a lot less American accents. Apparently they're in Cairo right now and camels do not agree with Signore Nine.

"Yes you do," Reborn says. "I'm your boss."

"No I don't," Yamamoto hums, clicking another link. "And I don't care."

"What's so awful about London?"

"The rain," Yamamoto offers without really paying attention.

"You like the rain. You were born in the rain."

"I was not," Yamamoto frowns, looking up now. Reborn raises an eyebrow.

"You told me the tragic story of your birth to a poor single mother in the middle of a rainstorm in Hokkaido after you drank three bottles of vodka and ate a seaweed-flavoured pancake."

Yamamoto wrinkles his nose. "I ate a seaweed-flavoured pancake?"

Reborn nods solemnly. "You also want to go to London."

"Forget it," Yamamoto grumbles. "London is on my list of 'never again' places."

"You went there once."

"I was labeled as an enemy of the country and put on MI6's most wanted!" Yamamoto complained.

"And apparently you were in the Top 5 for four weeks in a row," Tsuna jumps in, crowding up to Reborn and giving his boyfriend a smacking kiss on the cheek. Yamamoto scowls at him. "Aren't you supposed to be in Taiwan right now?"

"Yeah, but I got bored of scouting that corrupt dictator," Tsuna shrugs. "So I came home! Also, Spanner accidentally spilled a bowl of ramen onto the main circuit board, so I came downstairs to warn you that power's going to go out in about five seconds."

"Motherfu—" Reborn starts to say, and then the entire floor goes black.

There are ear-piercing screams of surprise, sounds of confusion and yells of "Aliens!" before someone hits the emergency light switch and everything is thrown into a hazy, yellow glow. Reborn glares at everybody and moves to stand on Yamamoto's desk. The spy slaps Reborn's Ferragamo loafers with a 'Safety first! How to properly conduct a target hit-and-run' brochure but gets no response.

"Shut up, incompetent oafs," Reborn shouts over the murmurings in the bullpen. "It's the Millefiore Mob. They've caught up with us. They've cut our electricity, replaced all our toilet paper with sandpaper, and are going to infiltrate headquarters soon. So, off you go to an early lunch."

There are mumbles of surprise, but then everybody's shrugging and reaching to grab their coats and wallets, debating who's carpooling with who's laser-beam shooting spy car and if they should have Greek or Chinese today. Reborn gets off Yamamoto's desk and looks down at him.

"You're going to London. And then, please swing by to New York to pick up my dry cleaning for me."

"Pooey," Yamamoto snips back, irritable, and then somebody decides to shut off the emergency lights at that very moment. In the midst of more shrieks of bemusement and several more cries of "Aliens!" Yamamoto makes his unhurried and unnoticed escape by parachuting out the window.

London, as always, is rainy and British and rainy. Yamamoto takes the tube under the Thames and tries to look very discreet in his navy Hugo Boss suit and a four thousand dollar coat. Three beggars came up to him for money and another one tries to pick his pocket, but Yamamoto catches him and dangles him by the foot over a bridge until the man almost pees himself. Then he gives the guy a couple of bank notes and an apple from his briefcase before going on his merry way.

He's stopped several times by police officers, but he convinces them that no, he's not on Britain's Most Wanted, and yes, that is my twin brother, such a shame, he had so much potential but he blew it all away, broke my poor mother's heart, and goodbye, Scotland Yard. Yamamoto finds his contact, Smoking Bomb, waiting for him at their secure location in a small, smoky pub.

"You're late, 80." Smoking Bomb snaps over puffs of his fading cigarette.

"Sorry," Yamamoto replies, sliding into the booth with his briefcase while not really feeling sorry at all. "I ran into a giant flaming winged Sphinx on my way here and had to battle it off."

"You're late," Smoking Bomb replies flatly. Yamamoto squints at his ally.

"What're you going by nowadays?" he asks. The silverette shrugs. "Gokudera. I'm also an unemployed fourth grade teacher who likes to sit at home and watch all the soap operas my wife left behind when she cheated on me."

"My condolences," Yamamoto nods, wondering when Agent Resources would finally get bored of the 'single and holed up in my flat because my husband/wife left me' excuse to let agents to spy from home. He signals the bartender for a pick-me-up and downs it in one go. "Did you know that I'm still wanted in England?"

"The first thing I did when I got here was ask Reborn if I could sell you out to the authorities," Gokudera says, taking a drag. "But he said you were in France, and extradition between the two is a bureaucratic nightmare."

"If I ever go to Spain, I am collecting money for that hit on you, asshole," Yamamoto grumbles. Gokudera narrows his eyes and hisses, "Bring it."

They jeer at each other for another half hour and drink more alcoholic beverages before Gokudera hands him a package wrapped in newspaper—Yamamoto's mission files for his time in England. He makes a face at them.

"Now if you'll excuse me," Gokudera says dryly, standing up and pulling his shabby duster on. "I have to go home and see if Mallory has forgiven Charles for sleeping with Josie yet, or design a new watch that shoots mini missiles out of the wind-up, whichever comes first."

Yamamoto heads home after that.

London comes and goes without much, mainly because his temporarily fabricated identification names him as a drunk bachelor who is also a part-time, shut-in blogger, so Yamamoto's forced to hole himself up inside the dreary little flat while he watches his target through multiple hidden cameras on his laptop. It's a week of boredom and take-out and it's enough to make him go insane. Yamamoto had never been good with sitting still; he'd been hyperactive as a child, joined the army the minute he was of age, and now served as one of the best spies in the most powerful organization around the world. The only thing that made this mission slightly more bearable was Tsuna, his only source of human interaction. Granted, human interaction was still pretty much limited to instant messaging over cold take-out.

27Booty says: whassup

Mr. Suave says: why are you messaging me. Don't you have a mission in Tokyo?

27Booty says: cancelled. Deal between Yakuza and our diplomat fell flat; they said that they'd open fire on any of our agents if we went to Japan

Mr. Suave says: I'd give you my sympathies but I'm not actually sorry

27Booty says: thx for nothing a-hole.

Mr. Suave says: fuck off

27Booty says: w/e. so, are you bored?

Mr. Suave says: no, it's the epitome of my life here in a city I don't want to be in huddled over a laptop fifteen hours a day. It feels like someone's trying to surgically remove my liver with a toothpick. What do you honestly think?

27Booty says: I think that when you go to New York, you should pull another one over the feds for the time they pranked us and swapped all of our field uniforms for women's lingerie.

Yamamoto remembers that incident. He also remembers how at home Sir Peacock was in a tight G-string. The ordeal had lasted for a whole week.

Mr. Suave says: what do u want me to do?

27Booty says: you're going to New York to pick up Reborn's dry cleaning, right?

Mr. Suave says: I resent that you twerp

27Booty says: go to the Museum of Modern Art while ur at it

Mr. Suave says: I am not picking anything up for your boytoy

Mr. Suave says: and why would I go to an art museum?

27Booty says: because, dipshit, they're hosting a Van Gogh viewing the week after you're done in London. All the feds will be there. Wouldn't it be funny if they unveiled the Starry Night and it turned out to be some chicken shit drawing done by a three year old?

Mr. Suave says: are you implying that my artistic abilities are chicken shit?

27Booty says: that's exactly what im implying mate

Mr. Suave says: fuck off

27Booty says: think about it! It'll be fun! Do it!

27Boot says: c'mon

27Booty says: you know you wanna

27Booty says: Yamamoto?

Your conversation partner has been disconnected.

27Booty says: …jerk

The sad thing is, Yamamoto does think about it, because he can't draw to save his life and it would be riotously hilarious if the FBI were to realize that one of the most famous paintings in the world were to be stolen under their nose. His skills extend to the use of crayons, and even then he's sure his five-year-old cousin is more capable then he is. Besides, it'll make his pathetic job here in England ten times funnier when he can buy a pack of crayons down at the craft store and doodle all over the back of his mission dossier.

His target makes a big move the day before he's scheduled to leave for the States, and Yamamoto happily leaps out across the street to gun him down. The downside is: he has to pack and run immediately after, because apparently the Yard is not as scattered-brained as he's come to think of them and his 'wanted' status is still offering a lot of money for his capture. He makes it on the plane headed for New York City exactly fifty-five minutes before the authorities catch up with him and enjoys champagne on the flight. He definitely thinks about Tsuna's suggestion, and asks the flight attendant for a box of crayons as well.

He makes it to New York three days before the actual viewing and vacantly scouts the Museum of Modern Art. If he's going to be honest, it really is a wonderful place. Yamamoto almost feels bad about stealing from them, but not bad enough to let a chance at pranking the FBI go. That's him, mature, manly International Superspy and two-year winner of Shimon Magazine's Sexiest Man of the Year award. Who's been mentally scarred by the sight of Sir Peacock wearing electric blue booty shorts.

The evening before the viewing, he gleefully colours a massive portrait of the Starry Night with all the blue crayons he could find in the multi-pack from the Dollar Store, and packs up all his supplies. The next evening, he showers early and changes into his tuxedo, because Americans can be so endlessly serious about all these formal events and Yamamoto is already anticipating his dry cleaning bill.

The front gallery is packed with individuals that would rack up in billions of dollars if they were ever kidnapped for ransom, all dressed in the latest fashions and holding thick art pamphlets that Yamamoto knows they won't bother to read. He breezes in under the alias of Tadashi Sumoshi, owner of a large oil company in the islands of Japan and a fan of European Art. He smiles and kisses the hands of many women and winks at a couple others before making his way over to pluck a flute of champagne from the towering tray of refreshments in the corner. Along the way, he accidentally bumps into another Asian man.

"Sorry," Yamamoto apologizes, moving aside. The man he'd run into gives him a truly chilling glare before turning on his heel and vanishing without a word. Yamamoto stares after him, momentarily displaced. What an asshole.

He wanders around and susses out the Feds, keeping a low profile until there's only twenty minute before the viewing begins. Yamamoto has this planned out perfectly. At 6:40 on the dot, he casually walks into the men's room, and after doing a quick sweep for bugs and any possible toilet-users, locks the door with ease. It's like every clichéd spy movie— under his three-piece is his thermal neutralizing suit that Giannini invented a while back. The crayon version of Starry Night is tucked neatly into a canister that Yamamoto retrieves from its pre-positioned location in the cleaning cabinet and carefully slid over his shoulder. He folds his suit into a small bundle and buries it into the bottom of the trash can before entering a stall, hopping up onto the toilet, pushing open one of the plasters in the ceiling and easing himself into the hollow space.

It's dusty and dark until he switches on his light, illuminating the entire tunnel with a mellow blue-white glow. Yamamoto slides the ceiling back in place and crawls forward with practiced movements, cautious not to place too much weight on one part of boards. It would be a repeat of Moscow that he would gladly never have again.

Because he's obviously the world's most BAMF spy, Yamamoto's memorized the entire floor plan of the museum to the point where he knows where to crawl to in the semi-darkness without ever being holed up in the ceiling before. It's not even a photographic memory, like Lieutenant Boxer. Who's constantly loud about how well he memorizes things. He creeps and slides as soundlessly as a snake on silk, hearing the distanced murmurs of the gathering and noises from various pipes or machinery running by him. It's so smooth and so typical of a job that when Yamamoto slithers around the corner to the panel right over the currently empty display room, he honestly does not expect to run into another person coming around the other corner.

Another person is crawling through the ceiling with him.

…fuck.

It happens fast and silently— the black-clad figure is on him in an instant, barely giving Yamamoto a chance to respond. His plated front saves him from being gutted but it's like an iron-clad punch consolidated into one tiny point right above his solar plexus, and it hurts like hell. Yamamoto curls backwards and kicks out, catching his enemy in the shoulders and sending him sprawling backwards so hard dust ought to have shaken from the ceiling below them.

In the tight space they lunge at each other with a type of stealth that helps Yamamoto immediately disassociate his foe from being a mere underground art thief; the other's movements are too quick, too precise, too practiced, just like his own. It's trained and lethal, like a throwing knife. It prompts him to think of the Millefiore, or the FBI, but if his opponent is really a fed then it's on, because copying the tiny missiles shooting out of the fog lights had been one thing, but ceiling-sneaking had a big fat SPY COPYRIGHT on it somewhere and was not up for grabs!

His momentary drift in thought costs him dearly. The ninja-guy-creeper-thing lashes out, catching Yamamoto's ankle and causes him to lose his balance. He falls, hard, and with an almighty crunch his butt breaks right through the delicate ceiling panels. He barely saves himself from falling through by grabbing one of the massive pipes above, gloves sweeping dust onto his face.

"You wanker," he hisses in a muffled voice at his adversary. "My ass went through this! The feds could trace my ass-print back to my base!"

"Serves you right, I was here first, herbivore," the shadow snarls back, equally soft. Apparently their desire to remain hidden is mutual, not that it's going to ease Yamamoto's temper in any way right now.

"Damn," he spits, wiggling a little. A bit of plaster falls onto the ground below.

"Shut up, you're loud as fuck," the weirdo snarks back evilly— they sound like a male, but Yamamoto isn't going to put a label on someone without double checking first, not since Lady Bianchi and the Great Pot of Death Dumplings incident and even then a spy's identity is worth questioning. The other guy is starting to slide away now. Yamamoto's dignified rage flared. With a great heave and a lot of crunching eight-pack muscles, he launches himself up and tackles the other man.

He barely has a moment to feel intensely satisfied at himself for gaining the upper hand before he hears a high-pitched creaking noise as the entire chunk of ceiling under his enemy's back breaks off, sending them hurtling down. It's Moscow all over again, except with more limbs and more plaster.

Yamamoto's sure they're fucked— any American agent worth his ejector-seat sports car would come running in with a massive wave of back up. But as luck would have it, catering chooses the exact moment to simultaneously pop open fifteen bottles of champagne that lets loose a POW! like a canon shot. It takes all of his spy-honed instincts to sort each of these factors out as Yamamoto tastes the spike of zero-gravity before he twists through the air and lands like a cat, making a soft noise that even a stuffed animal dropping onto the plushest carpet could not achieve. The display room is dimly lit by yellow lamps on the walls, casting long shadows over the works of art covered in white sheets, waiting to be shown. Across from him, his foe regains his footing just as expertly, that buttface.

They face off, a little warily, until Yamamoto breaks the silence again.

"What're you here for, twerp?"

"Nothing you need," the other hisses back, circling slowly to his right. Yamamoto mimics him, matching step for step. He carefully slides the canister off his back, not missing how his foe twitches in reaction before he realizes it's not a threat yet. Yup, definitely a spy.

"I'm here to play, uh, a prank," Yamamoto whispers and damn it, he sounds stupider than ever saying that out loud. He can't see it, but he thinks the other guy raises an eyebrow.

"A prank." It's not even worth questioning, Yamamoto bemoans to himself. He'll be the laughingstock of V if this ever gets out.

"Look, you do your thing, I do mine, and we both get out without being seen, okay?" he half-pleads. God, Yamamoto never begs. This is going to ruin him.

"Only herbivores will stoop down to such low levels of imploring," the other sneers, but his stance relaxes fractionally. It's only until he eases upright that Yamamoto knows two things: the man isn't going to attack, and—

"You're from V," Yamamoto splutters, pointing at the suit. It's an updated version of his current wardrobe, with an extra side pocket and an inflatable pant leg for any water-related situations. There's no logo, of course, how stupid would that be? It would be like asking for a headshot.

"You didn't know?" the voice is now condescending, and it grates on Yamamoto's nerves like sandpaper sprinkled with hot chili flakes over an open wound.

"It was dark!"

"I knew you were from V," the spy snaps back, glancing around the room.

"You knew I was one of you and you attacked me?!" Yamamoto nearly cries, outraged. His fellow colleague fixed him with an icy glare.

"You're weak. I will bite you to death."

"How the heck did you pass the psych evaluation test?" Yamamoto growls as he unscrews the lid off his canister. The crayon-version of Starry Night is rolled onto the ground.

"I didn't pass it; that's how you make it into V, stupid." Apparently the spy's found what he wanted, which turns out to be an envelope taped under a bench in the corner of the room. "Dear god, what is this blinding piece of shit? Did a three year old hold a chicken while it scratched blue wax onto the paper?"

"I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that," Yamamoto snaps as he patiently stalks over to his targeted painting and whips the sheet back to reveal it in all its glory. However, Yamamoto is not an art fan, and could not care less about cracking open the frame of the original so that he could slot his lovely masterpiece in.

"You're vandalizing," the other agent says, low and annoyed.

"Fuck you, you uneducated shit," Yamamoto says, adopting a sarcastic wise tone of voice. He rolls the real painting up and slides it into his canister before draping the sheet back over it, and when he turns around the other is staring at him through the tinted goggles of the suit. It's unnerving.

The other V spy glares. "Listen up, you insolent little—"

Of course, it would be the perfect moment for a slightly tipsy fed to walk in, mistaking the display room was a restroom, and to freeze in their tracks. Everything halts for a very long second.

"Oh, crap," Yamamoto breathes, and breaks into a sprint for the window, the other spy hot on his heels.

"Hey!" the marshal yells, drawing his gun. Two bullets streak past them and saved Yamamoto the job of breaking through reinforced glass, so the two of them hurtle out of the building and lands head-first into a massive willow tree.

"Oh my god," Yamamoto groans, twisting through thick branches and pesky vines before he drops onto sweet, mercifully flat ground with his enemy-now-turned-runaway-partner-in-crime.

"Run, herbivore!" the other snarls, and they scamper down the street to the sounds of police sirens wailing after them.

Because luck is not necessarily on Yamamoto's side, it starts to rain as they dash down the sidewalk in ninja suits that are not as warm as one would think. Yamamoto's going to have a few words with Giannini when he gets back.

They run for thirteen blocks before they sneak into the closest building to duck into the nearest bathroom, panting and wiping rainwater off their faces with the sleeves of their suits.

"This," the other spy snarls, "is the stupidest herbivore shit I've ever done in my life. I've never had to bail like this before. I use the front fucking door when I finish a mission!"

"Hard luck, mate," Yamamoto growls back as he yanks his hood off, relishing in the stale air of cleaning detergents and wet floors. He's sweaty and tired, and he is never ever ever doing anything Tsuna says ever again. Ever. He turns to bitch at the other spy, only to find himself face to face with the rude Asian man he'd accidentally bumped into while he was wandering around at the party in the main reception area.

"You!" Yamamoto cried, outraged.

"Me," the other said calmly, running a gloved hand through his flattened raven hair. Up close, Yamamoto revels in the spy's image—he's actually really good looking. Sharp eyes, angular jaw, a long, straight nose and a thin mouth. His skin had a no-sun quality to it and looked smoother than a model's. Not fair, Yamamoto silently laments.

"Who the hell are you, anyway?" he ventures to ask even though they don't have a lot of time.

"Should you really be bothering with such herbivorous questions right now?" the spy snaps, banging through the stalls for some toilet paper. "We need a change of clothes. And I am so reporting you to Reborn."

"Wait, you're in my division?" Yamamoto gapes, mouth hanging open.

"Of course I am, dipshit, I'm Agent 18!" Agent 18 snarls, chucking the wad of used paper into the trash can. "Are you actually as stupid as you look?"

"I resent that," Yamamoto replies out of reaction, beyond stunned. Agent 18? This pompous, frigid little asshole was the Agent 18? The one who took down and merged the Koukyo Gang with their organization? The legendary agent who even Reborn respects? Good god, the world was ending.

Sudden voices coming from the other side of the door jolts them. Yamamoto grabs his things and leaps for the blind spot around the wall while Agent 18 slides into the shadows behind the door, and just as two happily conversing men carrying suits with them walks in Agent 18 knocks them out with well-placed karate-chops onto the back of their necks. The civilians slumped without knowing what hit them.

"Clothes," Agent 18 hisses, grabbing one of the dove-grey lumps and chucks it at Yamamoto, who wastes no time in stripping off his gloves so he could yank the suit on top of his ninja outfit. It was slightly tight around the shoulders, making him feel like a penguin. Agent 18 is dragging on a truly heinous burgundy-coloured three-piece, wincing as he does so. Hah, Yamamoto thinks savagely. Serves him right.

"We're leaving," Agent 18 says harshly, as though reading his thoughts. "Now."

Yamamoto didn't argue. The two of them drag the bodies into the stall and abandons the scene quickly, doing their best to adopt casual poses. Yamamoto makes sure to grab the canister with the painting before the sneak out of the bathroom. The hallway they went through was mostly empty, but there were a few groups of people in the main hallway. Yamamoto is startled to see that several women are dressed in wedding gowns.

"Oh my god, 18, you've led us to a freaking church!" Yamamoto hisses.

"Are you dumb?" Agent 18 snarls back under his breath. "This is a Registry Building!"

"What the fuck? That's government grounds! That's even worse!"

"Shut up!"

Outside, distantly, Yamamoto picks up the sound of police sirens, and freezes. Agent 18 goes as still as a statue as well.

"Quick, this way!" Yamamoto muttered, taking a sharp right. Agent 18 follows him, and the two of them breeze past another group of to-be married couple and their families. Behind them, there are the sounds of a many heavy-booted footsteps. They pick up their pace.

"We're gonna get caught," Agent 18 snaps. "Stop moving!"

They come to a complete halt at the end of a line, where a couple in front of them is filling in several sheets of paper.

"You keep looking behind your shoulder," Yamamoto growls. "Of course they're going to see you!"

"Keep your voice down, you mutant monkey."

"Oh, that's rich, coming from a frigid bitch!"

Agent 18 whirls around, eyes dangerously bright as he says in a low, dangerous voice, "Are you picking a fight?" just as the couple before them scream with happiness and leap into each other's arms, three police officers walk into the hallway, and the government official behind the desk calls out in a bored voice, "Next!"

"Shit," Yamamoto groans.

"Out of our way, herbivores," Agent 18 snarls, violently shoving the kissing husband and wife aside as he stalked up to the little booth. "We're getting married," he growls at the clerk, who doesn't even bat an eyelash as he flips a page over. Yamamoto, however, nearly chokes on his tongue.

"Names?" the clerk asks, monotone. He's chewing gum.

"Hibari Kyoya," Hibari says snappishly, and then turns to glare at Yamamoto expectantly.

"Oh hell no," Yamamoto hisses. "I'm not marrying you!"

"Name?" the clerk asks, a little impatiently. The three officers are making their way steadily up the hall, glancing at the groups of people waiting in lines. Yamamoto grits his teeth.

"Yamamoto Takeshi," he spits. His real name feels foreign on his tongue, and surprisingly, that fact bothers him a lot.

"Ages?" the clerk muttered, scribbling the information down.

"Twenty-four," Yamamoto says at the same time Hibari mumbles, "Twenty-five."

"Dates of birth?" the clerk asks, popping his gum. Yamamoto feels like popping the guy's neck.

"What is this, an interrogation?" he demanded. The clerk looks up, unamused.

"Look, man, this is standard protocol. Do you want to get married or not?"

"May 5th," Hibari nearly shouts and Yamamoto grudgingly says, "April 24th."

"Alright," the clerk drones as he writes something else down, and then spins the notepad towards them. "Sign here, here, and here. Please tick the boxes where applicable, choose yes or no to the terms and conditions, sign in the highlighted boxes ONLY, or where applicable, then fill in the information below only if you are a landed immigrant, a refugee, or a travelling circus troupe, and then sign again at the very bottom."

"Give me another pen," Yamamoto snaps as Hibari snatches up the first one, scrawling a bunch of information down. Yamamoto squeezes his hand in and checks everything without reading it, fingers brushing against Hibari's occasionally due to the close proximity. He determinedly refuses to think about this.

"Disapproving in-laws on their way?" the clerk asks dryly as Yamamoto shoves the notepad under his nose the second they finish.

"That and more," Hibari says darkly, stealing a glance behind them. The officers are only two lines away, peering into the confused people's faces. Behind the desk, the clerk starts to print off their certificates.

"C'mon, hurry it up," Yamamoto snaps. The clerk gives him a scowl.

"Just a minute, sir—"

"Can't you see we're in a rush?!"

"Shut up!" Hibari snarls, punching Yamamoto in the arm. It feels like an ox just ran into him.

"One more second, misters—"

"For fuck's sake," Yamamoto growls.

"Quiet!" Hibari snaps.

"Excuse me, sir," a police officer says from right behind Hibari just as the clerk slides the certificates over. Yamamoto snatches one up, bellows, "WE'RE MARRIED!" and grabs Hibari by the collar, yanking him savagely over for a kiss. Hibari flails his arms and smacks Yamamoto in the face by accident, but he quickly grabs the lapels of Yamamoto's hideous suit and kisses back, wet and messy and furiously. Yamamoto could practically feel the punches the agent will rain on him in the future, but hey, whatever, if this means the police isn't going to look, screw it.

Around them people are applauding, god knows why, and Hibari's fighting him fiercely for the upper hand, sticking his tongue on the underside of Yamamoto's lip while Yamamoto purposefully drools onto Hibari's cheek. It is so gross it's not even funny.

The officer blushes a little, avoiding the agents, and then waves his men on, peering around the lines of people past them. Yamamoto and Hibari stay glued together, eyes wide open and darting to the side to keep the officers in their line of vision. Hibari's face is so close it's just a weird blob of colour in Yamamoto's left eye, and their teeth keep bumping together.

Finally, after what felt like years, the policeman calls, "Clear!" and they hurry out of the hall, presumably to search elsewhere. Yamamoto and Hibari leap apart at once, gasping for breath while wiping saliva off their red, swollen lips.

"Oh my fuck," Yamamoto pants, spitting disgustedly to the side. "Never again!"

"You," Hibari growls, positively feral, "Will pay for this, herbivore!"

They straighten up, glaring at each other. It is impossible to tell which face held more hate.

"That'll be 185.99$ for service fees, if you please," the clerk says, and pops his gum.

Part One End