Title: Helpless
Rating: pg-13 for drunken snogging.
Spoilers: For Outo arc. Set immediately after that drinking session.
Summary: "But, no matter how you calculate, predictions aren't always fixed"-Ch. 49 The Last Enemy. We can never have complete control over everything. Word count: 721.
Disclaimer: Tsubasa: Reservoir Chronicle and its characters (Fay D. Flourite and Kurogane) belong to CLAMP, Del Rey Ballantine Books, Random House Inc., Kodansha Ltd., and Funimation. This work is for entertainment only, no copyright infringement is intended, and the author reaps no profit except perhaps heartbreakage by the angst.
A/N: Part two is barely crawling along...

Helpless

You are rudely jolted from the fuzzy, glowing warmth of intoxication in your mind by a large, calloused hand swinging your injured leg (none too carefully) from the couch into a hakama-clad lap.

"Meeeeeow~~~! Kuro-pup was really quick at putting Little Doggy and Little Kitty to bed! Such a good doggy, aren't you? Aren't you a goooood doggy woggy, meow?" You slur, quick to hide your surprise, and wait for the inevitable explosion. And wait.

(Even now, to your alcohol-inundated brain, your voice sounds much too bright and just that bit too edgy to be convincing. But still, you had to try.)

And wait, but the bigger man doesn't rise to the bait. Instead, he hefts your foot again and begins to unwind the bandages, all the while keeping his unwavering red gaze trained on your face. You feel your grin slide off and eventually the scrutiny is too much so you avert your own gaze. The bandages are completely off now and strong, dextrous fingers probe expertly at the swollen joint. You can still feel the weight of that stare and will yourself not to fidget.

Then with curious gentleness the bronzed hands start to massage your painful ankle, the rough pads of the thumbs rubbing soothing circles over sinuous tendons and round and round the sharp protrusion of bone. Unable to contain yourself any longer and seeking to distract yourself from the growing discomfort crawling up the back of your neck, your eyes snap back to his.

"I thought you hated people like me, Kuro-sama?" you breathe, acutely aware—much too aware—of the other hand that had crept up to loosen the muscle at the back of your leg. Why are you doing this?The hands, like the pair of unyielding red irises, never waver.

"I do," came the simple reply. But a troubled frown has settled over his features and he looks as if he wants to continue; the hands on your leg and ankle have stilled and the penetrating glare directed elsewhere. "It's just that—" he starts. "You're such an idiot," he begins again. "If you won't defend yourself, won't stop letting your idiot head get smashed, then I will." At the last words, he lifts his head defiantly and his vehement stare bores into you, daring you to refuse.

The silence stretches on and you are faintly aware that you are gawping and your mouth is hanging slightly open. But the strength of his conviction, the sincerity, has left you breathless. And weak—weak with such scalding, impossible hope. Suddenly, you lurch off the couch and you have his face in your hands and then you are kissing him—a sloppy gloriousmess of tongue, hungry lips and clashing teeth. You can still taste the sake on his tongue and—

It's over as a firm hand on your chest opens the distance between you and him.

"No," he says, intent eyes scouring your face. "Not like this, not when you won't remember, or pretend not to remember, so you can go on pretending away."

That's the point, Kuro-tan.Both his eyes and hand releases your face and you promptly take refuge behind your overgrown fringe. His hands are back on your ankle as is his pointedly averted gaze. They work efficiently, military, in the speed and accuracy at which they strap new bandages onto your pale ankle. "You should put more ice on that," he mutters and with that he stands and leaves swiftly; still careful with the way he sets your leg aside on the hardwood floor.

Only then do you release the breath you didn't realise you were holding. Only then do you draw your knees up, helpless against the bitter, wry smile that steals across your lips.

Kurogane, you stupid, stupid, noble, kind, good man.

(You are defenceless: he hurtles through your meticulously composed and rehearsed pretences one by one; his fierce determination to salvage whatever is left behind your masks (if anything remains) crosses all boundaries you draw. You are weak—breaking all those unspoken rules you made years and years before this journey. You are helpless against the knowledge that he cares; even more so, you are paralysed by the knowledge—no, this is more visceral—the clenching rawness in your chest. Powerless against your traitorous pounding heart.)

To be continued.