A/N: Wow, can you believe it? I finally managed to scrape something up from the depths of my paralyzed imagination. I'm actually posting the sequel, after so long. I'm so happy! ^_^ It's not really long, but a little something is better than nothing, eh? I just couldn't ignore all those requests!

Hostage Situation II: The Aftermath

Chapter 1

Ryoma Echizen limped toward his house, slid open the bamboo-paneled front door and stepped over the threshold. He looked around; the house was silent and motionless. With a sigh of relief, he dropped his tennis bag to the hardwood floor. He gingerly slipped off his shoes and set them beside his bag. Bandages bulged underneath his right sock.

Ryoma steadied himself on the stairs with a black and blue hand to the rail. Both wrists were wrapped inexpertly with white gauze, as was the palm of his left hand. Purple, swollen bruises decorated his face – particularly the left side. He hobbled as if something deep inside ached.

The twelve-year-old creaked open his bedroom door and shut it behind him with a soft click. He leaned against it, letting his hazel eyes fall shut. The dark circles beneath them blended with the bruising on his face. He swayed, just catching himself with his left hand to the nearby desk. He flinched and clutched it to his chest.

When he blinked open tired eyes once more, his bed gleamed as if the Pearly Gates to heaven had just swung wide. He threw himself across it, face-first. The twelve-year-old slid his hands beneath his pillow and buried his face in its soft plushness, shutting out the late afternoon light. His breath heated the fabric with moist warmth. Locks of unruly, green-and-black hair strayed across the pillow and along the nape of his neck.

Shortly, he felt a small paw tentatively touch his lower back. He smiled into the pillow. The paw grew bolder. Soon, all four pressed into his back. After kneading him in proper preparation, the four points were replaced with a soft, warm lump that began to purr. Ryoma felt the vibrations all along his spine.

Ryoma turned his head to the side to murmur, "I missed you, too, Karupin." The purring grew in volume. The bed seemed to suck him in like quicksand, and he gladly released himself to it.

Several hours later, he awoke to his father bursting in and exclaiming excitedly, "Why didn't you tell me you were back?" Nanjiroh's teasing grin faltered. "Ryoma?" As he took in the bandages and bruises, he stepped toward his son involuntarily. "Are you okay?"

Ryoma's eyelids, glazed with sleep-haze, slowly peeled apart. "What?" He blinked a few times, and shifted onto his side to see his father. Karupin meowed loudly in protest and leapt off him. The boy's brow wrinkled in exhausted confusion.

Nanjiroh dropped to his knees beside his son's bed, grabbing his shoulder. "How did you get those bruises?" he demanded.

Ryoma only frowned at him and blinked slowly.

"Ryoma!" his father exclaimed, concern overwhelming what little patience he had to begin with. "Are you okay?" He shook his son's shoulder.

The tennis prodigy brushed his father's hand off, muttering, "Oi, just let me sleep." He collapsed back onto his stomach, shoving his hands underneath his pillow again. He settled down into the soft blankets and closed his burning eyes. He was asleep within moments.

Nanjiroh sat back on his heels and helplessly dropped his hands into his lap. Listening to the comforting sound of his son's even breathing, his eyes roamed over Ryoma's battered visage in mounting, concerned frustration.

Reluctant to tear himself away, the need to understand – to do something – was nevertheless gnawing at him. He staggered to his feet and left the room. If Ryoma wouldn't tell him, well... he knew someone who would. Hell, she should have called him before Ryoma even got home.

Once downstairs, he snatched up his cell phone. He punched the buttons and slammed the device against his cheekbone. He paced, tapping an angry tattoo against the phone. Finally, Ryuzaki Sumire's voice answered, "Hello?"

"Ryuzaki!" he burst out. "What happened?"

"Nanjiroh?" she asked in bewilderment. "Is something wrong?"

"Damn right there's something wrong!" he shouted. "And I want you to explain it! You organized the damn thing!"

"Nanjiroh," Ryuzaki exclaimed, "what are you talking about?"

His knuckles whitened on the phone. He took a deep, trembling breath and whispered, "It's Ryoma."

Ryuzaki had never before heard that trembling tone from her former student. "Oh my god," she breathed. "Did something happen?"

That gave Nanjiroh pause. "You don't know?" His mind began to race. What in the hell was going on?

She answered slowly, "No. Is he all right?"

He laughed – a sound utterly lacking in humor. "Hardly. He's got bruises all over – wouldn't even speak to me. All he wanted to do was sleep." His eyes clouded. "I've never seen him so... listless."

After a long, groping silence, she managed – quite inadequately, "Well, I'm sure he'll be okay. He's strong."

Nanjiroh gaped. "No, you don't get it! He's hurt!"

Ryuzaki threw up her free hand in exasperation. "Yes, you told me that. But it's really not that unusual for Ryoma to not speak to you. He's quiet by nature, anyway."

He inhaled slowly. "That's true," he reluctantly admitted.

"There, you see? You're just overreacting." Though she said this, the tennis coach couldn't help but feel a sense of foreboding. Nanjiroh wasn't exactly the overreacting type... .

"Maybe. But the fact still remains that someone hurt my son. And I'm going to find out who."

The next morning, Ryoma awoke to see his father sitting cross-legged with his back against the prodigy's desk, snoring away. A tiny smile flickered across the freshman's face. He painfully pushed himself upright, covering a jaw-cracking yawn with one hand. He blinked heavy lids; he was still impossibly tired.

"Dad," he rasped. Nanjiroh continued to snore. "Dad," he called again.

Nanjiroh jerked straight. His eyes immediately locked onto his son. "Ryoma!" he cried. The few feet between them disappeared. Kneeling in front of him, he took Ryoma's swollen and discolored face gently in both hands, searching the boy's hazel eyes. "How do you feel?"

Ryoma winced and leaned out of the touch. "Annoyed."

Nanjiroh let his hands fall, feeling an absurd disappointment. Ryoma seemed to be holding himself stiffly – probably against pain, but the man chose not to mention it. "Are you hungry?" he inquired softly.

Ryoma thought about it a moment and then shrugged. "Not really."

"Is there anything I can do?"

Ryoma peered at his father with narrowed eyes. Without thinking, he asked suspiciously, "Are you sick, or something? 'Cause you're acting really weird."

Nanjiroh stared at his son in disbelief before bursting out with peals of tension-releasing laughter. "Am I sick?" He shook his head, tears streaming down his face. "My son... hurt... asks me... ." His voice trailed away into complete incoherence.

Ryoma frowned, but sighed when it became clear that his dad wasn't going to stop anytime soon.

Levering himself to his feet, surprise flashed across his face when he swayed like a tree in a strong wind. Nanjiroh's guffaws ended as if cut with a knife. Leaping to his feet, he steadied his son with two strong hands on the prodigy's shoulders. Before he could say anything, the freshman murmured, "No, I'm okay."

Once steady, Ryoma moved back from his father's touch. Shuffling toward the door, he yawned again. He answered the unasked question with irritation, "I'm just going to watch TV."