Chapter Text
Hanma is sitting in a nearby chair, hunched over a small table as he administers his own first aid. He refused your help vehemently, but when the disinfectant touches his split open and bloodied knuckles, he hisses and his hand retreats. So he’s left to struggle, suit jacket haphazardly tossed across the porch, and his dress shirt unbuttoned halfway with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
“What’s it like?” You ask, taking a quick pull of the cigarette into your lungs while you gaze out at the orange and purple hues of the late afternoon sky.
“What’s what like?” He lets out a steady stream of curses after fumbling with the wrap and watching it drop to the floor at his feet. Unable to take much more, you sigh heavily, and tuck the filter between your lips as you bend down to help. There’s a loud lack of refusal by this point.
“A whole criminal and he can’t even administer his own fuckin’ first aid,” you chide, cigarette bobbing with the words.
Hanma rolls his eyes and leans back in the chair, almost yanking his hand out of yours. “You’re such’a bitch.”
“I’ll drop my ash on your open wound. Don’t be mean to me.”
He looks away, furrowing his brow when the cotton swab makes contact once again. Through clenched teeth, he seethes, “What was your fucking question?“
“Oh!” You start like you’d forgotten what prompted the conversation. “What’s it like to kill someone?”
Ointment glazes his knuckles, and he looks down at you. “Why? Ya wanna kill someone?”
You shrug, not meeting his eyes. The ash is bending and you’re afraid it might actually drop onto Hanma’s hand if you don’t dispose of it quickly. You tilt your chin over to his right.
“Hand me the tray.” He grunts, but listens, holding the tray under the cigarette, eyes observing the way the stick is flicked by what he assumes is your tongue and the ash drops in the glass dish. “Thanks. The ointment on my hand would’ve made things gross.”
Hanma sets the tray to the side and plucks the cigarette from your lips, taking one last drag before snubbing it out.
“These’ll kill you.”
Wiping your hands on your jeans, you stare at him, expressionless, as you grab the gauze and dressings for his hand.
“Are you serious?”
“Do I look like I’m joking?”
He doesn’t. There’s a hard look in his eyes and a frown on his face. He’s entirely serious about cigarettes being the thing that will kill you. A statement made by a man that has been smoking the same shit since he was a middle schooler, the same man that killed people without a second thought.
“You’re hilarious, Hanma.” Shaking your head, you go back to dressing his knuckles. Taking care to wrap them in a way that allows the best movement without messing up your handy work. “So, are ya gonna answer my question?”
There’s a sigh and a small clattering of metal on the table. When you glance up, you see he’s taken off his glasses and is pressing the heel of his other hand into his eye. You think he’s annoyed, agitated by your persistence, but there’s a hint of a grin and a twisted chuckle comes from his chest.
“It’s exhilarating.” You finish wrapping his hand and he scrutinizes the work. Once satisfied, he leans back with a wild look in his eyes and his grin now has too many teeth. “Having someone underneath your shoe, begging for their life and knowing you’re all that stands between them and complete darkness?” He opens his hands, palms up and stares at them like, within them, he holds the entire world. “It makes you feel like God and Death all in one.”
You wonder if you could stomach it. Killing someone just because, whether or not they deserve it. For a good reason, for your friends, and the bit of family you have left, you probably could. But the way Hanma views it, the way it twists up a thrilling sense of superiority in him, you don’t think taking a life could ever make you feel similarly.
“Could you kill me?”
You look up at him, into the wild eyes that had images of the people whose lives he took dancing in front of them, and you see yourself; lying on the ground, choking on your own blood with tears running down your temples and pooling in your ears. There’s a hand around your throat with a familiar tattoo and your own are wrapped around the wrist and silver watch as he squeezes out the last flickers of life from you. The answer is there, in the windows of his alleged soul, even before he answers.
“Without hesitation.”
“I figured,” you say, standing back up, dusting off your legs. “Pity.”
He smirks, flexing the wrapped hand. “Did you think you were special?”
With a slight tilt to your head, you purse your lips, thinking a little. “Kind of. After all,” you flick his covered knuckles and he grunts. “You’d be lost without me.”
“Lost?” Hanma scoffs and you smile. “Fat fucking chance.”
“Oh, boohoo.” Sarcasm drips off your pitiable faux expression as your bottom lip juts out. “I suppose ya gotta kill me to find out, huh, Shuji?”
Hanma stands abruptly, bandaged hand darting out to wrap tightly around your throat as he towers over you. A startled gasp whisks out of you and your jaw hangs slightly open as you gaze up at him.
“I’d watch your mouth, sweetheart.” His fingers press into the sides of your throat, cutting off the blood flow, and your lips tingle as your vision swims. “Whores like you are easily replaceable.”
An opened mouth smile graces your features and your hand glides up his forearm and to his wrist, pushing his grip further onto your esophagus.
“Then replace me,” you grit and feel something akin to exhilaration boiling up from your belly. “Do it,” you urge.
“I thought you didn’t want me to be mean to you?”
Hanma stands there for a minute, eyes moving back and forth over yours, and sees the pleasurable shiver fall over you.
“Just a lil bit,” you wheeze.
Then he snarls, effectively cutting off your airway for a few long seconds, chuckling as your eyes roll back into your head.
“You’re sick,” he spits.
Abruptly, he releases you and you gasp raggedly. He turns away, snatches his glasses off the table, and heads inside without another word.
“Ah,” your voice is rough and gravelly as you speak to the empty air. “You like that about me.”
Your tongue darts out to wet your dry lips, hand ghosting over the phantom pressure left behind and you know there will be a bruise come morning. Yet you can’t seem to find a reason to be angry.
A little over a year ago, Hanma plucked you out of a dingy corner of a warehouse where he had just had an entire group of gunrunners wiped out. Bloodied bodies littered the floors and the groans of the dying echoed inside of its tin walls, yet you stood there, staring with wide eyes and blood speckled across your face.
“Pretty thing,” he coos. Wet, sticky fingers slide along your jaw. “It’d be a pity to kill you before getting a taste.”
A gun lays against his shoulder as his fingers dip down into the dribble of blood drooling down your neck.
“Seems like I saved you, huh, sweetheart?” You swallow and nod, still feeling the phantom chill of a blade pressed against your throat by someone with a snake tattooed on his hand. “They used you, hm? Passed you around like their favorite little cock sleeve?”
When you shake your head, he presses his thumb into your esophagus with the slightest bit of pressure.
“No, sir.”
“‘Sir?’” He chuckles. “Such a good girl. What are you then?”
“I,” your eyes moving over his powerful form and the taunt material of his suit. “I, um, I can speak English fluently. I—,”
There’s a shout and they can hear approaching sirens in the distance.
“Hanma.” The man holding you in place briefly looks over his shoulder. “We have t’ go. Kill her or bring her.”
Hanma, without letting go of you, pivots his body so the barrel of his gun is pressed harshly into the forehead of the man behind him.
“Give me an order again,” he threatens, and you can hear the smile in it. “Go ahead, I’ll wait.”
“S-sorry.”
Suddenly, his arm slides further around the back of your neck and yanks you into his side. Now he’s looking at you and the metal of the gun digs into your cheekbone. “You’re coming home with me, sweetheart.”
There’s no room for refusal and, like a dog on a leash, you let yourself to be led.
It didn’t take long for you to get comfortable with your new surroundings. Having dealt with people in a similar line of criminal work to Hanma, you fit into the mold rather quickly. However, you weren’t prepared for things to turn out how they were, nor did you expect to feel so strongly towards a man with more orchestrated kills under his belt than hairs on your head.
Something tells you it might be the way he treats you.
There’s a garden behind the house, something you convinced Hanma to invest in so there would be something for you to do on the days where he didn’t need you glued to his side. The flowers sit in abundance at your chest, decorating the expanse of the yard from the view of the backyard patio right before the beveled cream stone dips down into a ten foot deep rectangular pool and jacuzzi.
He leans against the window of his study, looking out at how you cut away the drooping petals and dried out branches. Brushing the soil off of your knees when you stand and disappearing to check the nearby plants he never attends to.
“Are we going to discuss the fuckery goin’ on or are you gonna watch the woman all day?” It isn’t the sarcastic jab that grabs Hanma’s attention, instead it’s the distinct flick of a lighter. A curled upper lip makes the guest pause. “What?”
Pushing up off the windowsill, Hanma gestures over his shoulder for the man to follow. “She won’t shut up about it if you smoke in here, come on.”
It takes only a few minutes for them to make it downstairs, smoke trailing behind Hanma like a steam engine despite not being the one with a lit cigarette. He opens the patio doors, letting an early winter breeze curl over him.
“So,” he starts, finally bringing his own fix to his lips but has yet to light. “What’s going on?”
“There’s a snake.” You don’t look up, the voices come from a small distance, two feet above you, but the conversation isn’t meant for you. “Someone’s trying to get under the foundation of Bonten.”
You hear a small acknowledgment from Hanma. “Any leads?”
There’re a few possible ones, but we can’t make any moves until we get more information.”
“It has to be someone we’re familiar with. They know our routes, how many warehouses we have, and just how many guys we have floating around between each one.”
When you grip a stem of the white rosebush, your gloves snag on its thorns and hold you there. Still trying to mind your own business, you’re not looking up, but can identify the other voice as Takeomi—someone you’re familiar with within Hanma’s work. He stops by more often than the others, and you’ve often wondered if it was to check up on Shuji and his loyalty.
You crouch down to part the bushes in desperate need of a cleanup, when you hear someone take a step directly in front of you from the patio. Finally, you look up and through the tangled branches. Takeomi is there with a cigarette between his fingers, and Hanma comes to stand at his side, taking the light Bonten’s advisor is offering.
“They’ll come out of hiding eventually, Hanma.” He takes a deep inhale and you watch as his chest expands, then deflates as the evidence of the breath leaves in a puff of smoke. “No one can stay hidden from Bonten for long.”
“Don’t you mean, Mikey? Or Sanzu?” Hanma snickers. “Crazy fucker would sniff out any snake for the King.”
“That’s my brother, dickhead.”
There’s an audible sigh from Hanma.
Turning your eyes away from them, your hands dig out the fallen leaves that threaten to suffocate the soil, but there’s an odd rustling next to your hand. Unbothered by what nature surprises you with, you come face to face with a rat snake peeking out from the foliage. It’s colored pattern shifts as it moves towards you in a continuous ‘s’, rustling across the dead leaves before it slithers over your wrist and disappears elsewhere.
“It seems the snake will make itself known sooner rather than later.” Lifting your eyes up once again, Takeomi’s eyes speak of a kindled flame with the possibility of a wildfire. “Any ideas about the snake?”
You shake your head as you stand. “I only know as much as the two of you, if not less.”
“And?” he asks, tilting his head to the side and taking another drag. “The little gunrunner’s heard nothing from her contacts?”
Your eyes flicker over to Hanma and he’s staring at you with lazy nonchalance, waiting to see what Takeomi can wring out of you. If, maybe, he’s gotten too soft on his little house pet and missed something crucial in the allure of your eyes.
“Takeomi, are you asking me if I’m withholding information from the group?” Takeomi sticks his arm out and lets ash fall onto one of your roses. “What makes you think they’d speak to me after Bonten lit them up?”
Eyebrow raised, he brings the stick back to his lips with a humorless chuckle. “Come on, you’re telling me no one was too sweet on you?” The tip of his tongue drags across his front teeth as smoke lazily falls from his lips. “Or begged to decorate that cute face of yours white?”
“Sure, there was.” You purr, taking a step forward. “But I’m not quite sure Hanma would like someone else painting on his canvas.”
He’s trying to goad you, that much is obvious, but you watch him the same way he does you: indifferent and eerily calm. Once again, he hangs a little bit of ash over a flower, but this time you're quicker; catching the gray flecks in the middle of your palm before they hit the delicate petals. With your gardening gloves still on, the ash doesn’t hit your skin.
“Do me a favor and don’t smoke around my flowers.” With your other hand, you snatch the last bits of their cigarettes, grinding them both between your gloves. “These’ll kill you.”
The men watch as you disappear into the small outdoor shed and Takeomi whistles low.
“You’ve got your hands full.”
“Exciting, isn’t she?” The ravenous grin on Hanma’s face sends an odd chill down Takeomi’s spine. “You should see her handle a gun.”
Takeomi hums. “You wanna share her?”
“Oh,” his eyes grow in amusement. “Took a liking to her already?”
“She’s feisty.” He’s already taking another cigarette out of his pack. He’s down to three now. “There’s nothing left of the shaky kitten you brought home, is there?”
“Not a drop.” Hanma leans over, lighting the end for Takeomi. “She challenges me now.”
He inhales, then blows the smoke out between them before passing it off. “Makes you rock hard, doesn’t it?”
Hanma takes a long drag before it’s snatched out of his hand. “Fuck yeah.”
“You’re coming with me to a meeting with the executives.”
The swirling liquid of your tea is mesmerizing, sugar crystals dancing in a cyclone in the light yellow of your jasmine tea. The water is 170 degrees Fahrenheit, and the tea leaves have settled inside their spherical steeping prison for only three minutes. You’re now staring at the tea infuser, wondering how holding something underwater always seems to leach out exactly what you want.
“Hey, are you listening to me?”
You’re not paying attention to a single thing Hanma says. Instead, you wonder what would happen if a group of people were held inside a tiny room and dunked inside a water tank like a clown at a town fair. A fragment of a memory forcibly forgotten shows itself on the surface of the tea; you’re gasping for air, sopping wet hair plastered haphazardly on your face, and obstructing your vision. A harsh echoing memory of a slap makes you jump.
Hanma calls your name, snapping his fingers in front of your face. “Why are you staring at your tea like it killed your brother?”
You shake your head and finally pick up the glass to take a sip. The temperature has cooled by ten degrees.
“Sorry,” you swallow, feeling the warmth of the liquid spread from your esophagus to your gut. “What did you say?”
“There’s a meeting in an hour.”
“And?”
“You’re coming.”
You blink at him and take another drink. “Is something wrong?”
Hanma’s fastening a silver watch to his wrist, adjusting his sleeves once the accessory is secured. “No, why?”
He’s lying. A meeting this late in the evening, out in the middle of the city, means there’s something that needs to be addressed.
“Are the rest of the members going to be there?” He nods and you watch the muscle at the corner of his mouth twitch. “You’re scoping someone out.” He steps forward, crowding your space. “You have a lead about the snake.”
“Not exactly,” he says in a low voice. “But I think they’ll be there tonight.”
“And you want another set of eyes, someone that will watch your back.” Hanma doesn’t respond to your assumption, but he grins and you feel your muscles relax. “Ok, Shuji. I’ll go with you.”
There’s a careful intimacy Hanma enjoys in the way you use his first name; only saying it when you want him to hear you.
His thumb traces your jaw. “Good girl.”
It’s so cold out, you’re shivering. A long-sleeved shirt and a long gray teddy coat apparently weren’t enough to curb the sharp winds of winter. Hanma stands at your side, scarf twisted around his neck and his nose slightly red. The both of you are standing outside of an establishment, something you only assume is a club often frequented by Japan’s Underground. The building is quiet, as is most of the street, at 11 o’clock on a Tuesday night, but something doesn’t feel right.
“Hanma, this-,”
“Why the fuck did you bring the girl here, Hanma?” Kakucho saddles up behind you right as Hanma opens the door. “This meeting’s no place to bring her around.”
“Shut up, Kakucho.” Hanma rolls his eyes, smirk sharp on his face. “Why don’t ya tell him what you’re here for, hm?”
Standing next to him, you see a playful look in his eyes, one he uses for the situations that amuse him the most. You know the answer he wants you to give and you know it’s primarily to see Kakucho’s expression.
You lock eyes with the man next to Hanma, eyes following along the trail of his scar for the briefest of seconds.
“I’m a shield.”
“What?”
“A human sh—,”
Kakucho holds his hand up to you. “No, no! I heard you! Hanma, what the fuck?”
Shuji throws his head back as he cackles, gaining the attention of the rest of the Bonten executives. The three of you stop at a flight of stairs, and standing on the second floor are several faces you’ve only really seen in passing, faces like–
“Hanma,” Mikey calls. “Enough playing around. Everyone else will be here soon.”
“Yeah, yeah. I hear you, Sano.” He places his hand on the back of your neck and rubs his thumb over the shell of your ear before stepping ahead of you. “Observe and don’t get involved.”
Even though he isn’t looking, you nod. Kakucho soon follows up the marbled steps, but turns around as soon as your foot hits the first step.
“Were you serious about being his shield?”
“Maybe.” A grin softens your sullen features and Kakucho flinches. “I’m unpredictable.”
He clears his throat, turning away and moving up the stairs with you in tow. “I’ve seen many people die. Don’t make yourself one of ‘em.”
The meeting goes smoothly. You hang back, watching as the Bonten executives discuss their dealings; their business fronts and how things are going, they address the lower level members watching and listening from the first floor, but it isn’t until Mikey speaks up, mentioning something about the police searching their warehouses that the nausea from earlier comes back. The members stiffen and you swear you see someone in the back corner shift something from one hand to the other. Your eyes lift to the second in command, Sanzu, who is staring at you through his lashes, as if he saw exactly what you had.
“Mikey,” he starts, eyes leaving yours to scrutinize the crowd below. “Someone in here’s a traitor.”
“No,” you mutter, stepping forward. Something still doesn’t feel right. “There’s more than one.”
All eyes are on you, but your words and Sanzu’s have opened the gates to angry panic in the people below. They’re all suspicious of each other, turning around and yelling at the neighbor they have fallen in line with. It all begins in a flurry, punches thrown and expletives hurdled, but you stand in the background watching as Hanma almost jumps from the second floor, throwing himself into the fray and cackling as he knocks someone’s teeth out.
“The cops’ll get called, Mikey.” Kokonoi leans against the railing overhead, observing the members fight amongst themselves as his leader does. “We should rein them in.”
There’s something you’re missing, something obvious amongst the blood spatter and crack of breaking bones. You’ve lost sight of the man you saw earlier with an object in hand. You don’t know where he is, but he’s no longer tied up in the fighting.
Mikey waves Sanzu forward, signaling him to quell the fighting. “Enough!” His voice booms and your eyes narrow at the crowd. “Fall back into line!”
The fighting ceases immediately, haggard breathing and aggrieved groans carry in the building even as Mikey descends the staircase with his other executives in tow. You stop at the foot of the stairs, waiting for Hanma to disentangle himself from the bodies.
“Did you have fun?” You smirk, eyebrow raised as he approaches.
“Of course, I did.”
Then, you see the thing you missed. The all too familiar glint of a Walther P22 being drawn to the left of him at a twenty yard distance. The man aims first at Mikey, but loses his chance as he leaves the club and instead focuses the barrel on Hanma. His arm is much too shaky for anything to hit accurately, but it doesn’t stop the loud pop of a gunshot and you’re too far to reach him.
Hanma stumbles forward, his suit quickly becoming stained in his own blood, and boiling rage spreads like wildfire inside of you. The desire to kill comes much easier than expected. It roars to life inside of your chest, a searing brand of wrath etching itself into your skin, eyes widening in crazed abandon, and you move so quickly you’re almost unable to register your own steps.
The gunman is readying himself for another shot and taking strides forward for point blank range, but so are you. There are voices shouting; the first, your ears register as Shuji’s, but you don’t respond even as you pass him. The gunman notices you belatedly, and, startled by your determined approach, trains the barrel on you. There’s another shout. It sounds like a distressed version of your name, but you don’t hesitate. In a quick draw, the holstered gun on your thigh, hidden behind your coat, is held out in front of you. Then, suddenly, there’s a flash from your barrel and a dead body lays messily in front of you.
Everyone is staring, some pushing their way out of the building when they see the deadly look in your eyes and the tremble in your hand. It’s obvious this was never supposed to be a gunfight, but someone made it so and you had ended it.
Turbocharged anxiety reduces into white hot shock and, abruptly, you feel you’re going to be sick. Shakily, you slide the gun back into your holster and finally look back at Hanma, who is already standing next to you.
Your eyes flicker to his shoulder and you reach out. “Shuji—,”
He grips your jaw with his good arm, silencing you. “Get out of here. Now.”