Reborn! fic - Rationale
Title - Rationale
Rating - R (language, violence, and underage drinking D:)
Characters - Gokudera, Yamamoto (gen)
Notes/Warnings - Sequel to The Test, so you might want to read that first, though it’s not strictly necessary. Sliiiight spoilers for the Future Arc.
Summary - There’s no logic to killing.
Gokudera comes up with at least three rationalizations before actually performing the hit.
The first is that his target really does deserve it. He is, by all reckonings, beyond redemption; he’s been in and out of prison a half-dozen times for various homicide, rape, and assault charges, and would doubtless be rotting in some cell for life by now were it not for the time-honored mob tradition of bribing juries. Not that the mafia is filled with saints or anything, but this guy, no matter what way you look at it, is scum even compared to the worst of them.
The second rationalization is that there really is no other choice. They’ve already appealed to the Vindice about the matter, only to be turned down; they claim that the attacks on the Vongola were part of a legitimate feud between families. In other words, because the Tenth has been trying to put a stop to some of the Bernardi famiglia’s more violent dealings, the Bernardi are justified in attacking civilians that are under the Vongola’s protection. It’s ridiculous, but that’s how the mafia works. And since all of the Tenth’s attempts at negotiation have been brushed aside, the only option they’ve been left with is to take out the Bernardi’s most vicious assassin before he strikes again.
And Gokudera’s third rationalization, the most personal one, is that if he’s honest with himself, he’s not even sure if this will be his first kill. He’s grown up in this business; he was a bomb for hire, for crying out loud. On more than one occasion, he’s been tapped to blow up some obscure family’s hideout, or some jackass’s car, or a bar out on the edge of town. Hell, once he was even hired to do a concert hall. While he doesn’t know for sure, the likelihood that no one was killed in any of those incidents is slim. Odds are pretty damn good that he’s already a killer, and he just doesn’t know it yet.
And then there’s Yamamoto, who’s a killer now and is sure of it, and who Gokudera can’t afford to not catch up to.
So, armed with these rationalizations, he lays the charges outside the guy’s door and sets in to wait. If his intel is right-and the Vongola’s covert operatives are the best in the business-the target should be alone when he leaves the building; there’s no chance of anyone else getting caught in the blast. If it turns out he’s not alone, Gokudera simply won’t trigger the explosives. He’ll wait for another opportunity; he can afford to wait. Just not too long.
But when the door finally opens, the guy is alone when he steps out. Gokudera takes a deep breath.
And then he pushes the switch.
The staircase the man is standing on lights up in fire and smoke. The concussive force rocks the surrounding area, shaking the foundations of the building but leaving it intact. Gokudera squints to keep the dust out of his eyes, and when most of the flame has died down, swallows and steps out from his hiding place to confirm the hit.
And there’s the guy, and one look is all it takes; he’s definitely dead. Charred and bloodied and, oh yes, missing a couple of limbs on top of that. Well, that’s the whole point, after all; he chose the bombs he did specifically because he knew they would do enough damage to get the job done. Perfect. Mission accomplished. That wasn’t so bad, was it?
Swallowing again-why is his throat so dry?-he takes a step back, then another. Then turns, and runs-well, he’s got to make sure that no one shows up and finds him standing at the scene of the crime. Of course. He runs a long way, maybe longer than is really necessary, and then finally stops.
And retches.
…
Damn it.
This is it. He’s going to die.
Fuck. How could he have been so stupid? He should have expected the ambush, should have realized that they were vulnerable to an attack. Should have known not to let their enemy maneuver them into a position where he couldn’t fire his weapon effectively and where he and Yamamoto were cut off from an escape. And then on top of that, he had to go and get himself shot. Fuck. The pain makes it impossible to concentrate; the flame on his ring goes out and his weapon vanishes and fuck, fuck, fuck. Not now, not like this.
He’s dizzy from blood loss, his mind is still reeling trying to figure out how the hell they’re going to get out of this, and then he hears the click of a gun being cocked and knows. Just knows that this is it. He’s a dead man.
…And then Yamamoto is there, and he’s fast-so fast Gokudera can barely catch the movement-and he cuts, a single, solid, beautifully efficient swing. Like he’s done this a hundred times before. And the man falls down dead.
It’s like time freezes for a minute. Yamamoto stares down at the corpse. Gokudera stares at him. Then Yamamoto turns and meets his eyes with a strange, alien detachment that scares the shit out of him.
And then he turns back to deal with the rest of the gang while Gokudera crouches with his good hand pressed against the wound in his side. Watching, thoughts fuzzy-white, as Yamamoto takes them out like nothing just happened.
Like he’s done this a hundred times before.
Lots of people go to bars when they want to forget about something shitty that’s just happened, and while Gokudera has never been one of those people, he’s willing to try just about anything right now. So as soon as he’s judged himself to have gotten enough distance from the crime scene, he hits up the nearest seedy-looking establishment he can find, storms up to the bar, and demands the most expensive shit they’ve got.
The man behind the counter, who seems to recognize Gokudera as being just the slightest bit more armed and dangerous than the average patron, has the sense not to ask him for ID. However, he does astoundingly still have the gall, after Gokudera has been nursing his shaken nerves for about an hour, to try to cut him off. Needless to say, Gokudera isn’t exactly pleased.
“…Mind saying that again?” he asks darkly, and fortunately for him, the man has enough self-preservation instincts to drop it.
Two-thirds of a bottle later, Gokudera has a bad headache and is no closer to forgetting about the shitty events that spurred this course of action than when he started. Finally, he stumbles to his feet, mutters at the bartender to put everything on the Vongola’s tab, and starts painstakingly shuffling his way toward the door.
“You ain’t planning on walking home like that, are you, kid?” the barkeep calls after him.
“Fuck’ff,” he slurs back.
“Hold on a sec.” The man reaches behind the counter, grabbing something; Gokudera tenses up for a second at the rather absurd thought that it might be a gun, but it’s a phone. He steps out from behind the counter and holds it out. “Call someone, at least. You got a friend anywhere nearby?”
Gokudera just glares at him, and apparently his mood is still foul enough to make him seem threatening even while staggeringly drunk, because the hand offering the phone is very quickly withdrawn, and the man even takes a step back.
“…I said, fuck off,” Gokudera says again after a moment.
“All right, all right.” After a moment the man shakes his head and heads back over to the bar. “Take care.”
Gokudera pauses outside the building, leaning against the wall and fighting the urge to retch again. His own cell phone is in his hand before he’s really aware of it.
Call someone, at least.
His thumb hovers over the speed dial for a moment, and then he sighs and flips the phone shut. Forget it.
As annoying as it is to be stuck in the hospital, forced to spend hours and hours away from the Tenth’s side, and unable to do anything but lie in bed because the slightest movement sets ribbons of pain shooting through his abdomen, it’s more annoying still to know that he’s in the baseball idiot’s debt.
Damn it, he’s the right-hand man! He’s the one the other guardians are supposed to rely on! How does it look if he ends up getting shot and nearly killed and then Yamamoto of all people ends up saving his ass? It’s pathetic. He can’t stand it. He’d almost rather the guy have just killed him and gotten it over with.
Except of course that that isn’t true at all, which is the worst part, because there’s only so much wallowing in self-pity he can do before his brain ceases to ignore the fact that he really does owe Yamamoto his life.
So he resolves to thank him the very next time he sees him. Do it quickly and get it out of the way so he can stop feeling so damned… like this.
As it happens, Yamamoto stops by later that day, and when Gokudera does manage to choke the unwilling words out, the look on the other’s face is priceless in kind of a sickeningly sentimental way. After putting up with about as much of the other’s stupid grin as he thinks he can stand-and on top of that, a hair-ruffle that pretty much grinds his dignity to shreds-Gokudera is on the verge of taking the whole thing back when he suddenly notices that Yamamoto has that strange look in his eyes again.
“…Baseball idiot?” he questions after a long moment. There’s a visible jolt as Yamamoto blinks back to his senses, then another pause, and then Yamamoto finally laughs again.
“Ha ha, sorry, I guess I just got distracted for a minute there.” He ruffles Gokudera’s hair again-damn it-and smiles, and in the midst of his annoyance Gokudera abruptly feels a jolt of his own.
Something is wrong.
Yamamoto removes the offending hand from his head and puts it in his pocket, still smiling, but it doesn’t matter anymore because Gokudera saw it. Just for a second, but it was there, and now it’s transparent.
Something is wrong with Yamamoto. Something’s… missing, or something.
He thinks back to the fight again, and that cold, detached look in the other’s eyes, and… shit.
Something is wrong.
And it’s his fault.
Contrary to what the asshole bartender may have thought, he was capable of hailing a cab and getting home in one piece, an accomplishment that might have filled him with considerably more pride if he hadn’t puked all over his shoes the instant he stumbled back into his apartment.
One miserable half hour spent by the toilet side later, Gokudera collapses onto his couch, head swimming and stomach still reeling, and wearily gropes into his pocket for his cell phone once again. He spends another half hour scrolling up and down his call list over and over before he finally thinks, ‘fuck it,’ and dials the only person he can think to ask for some much-needed advice.
3 a.m. in Japan means it’s only 7 p.m. in Italy, which means it’s a long-shot (as there’s a good chance Shamal is currently out hitting on the nearest pair of breasts he can find), but it’s late and Gokudera’s head really hurts and it’s the only thing he can think of.
The phone takes a minute to connect, then finally rings. And rings. And rings again.
It rings altogether too many times-Shamal always did hate missing calls, particularly if they were from the type of woman he liked to delude himself into thinking would call him-before Shamal’s answering machine finally kicks in. “Ciao, this is Dr. Shamal. If you’re a patient, please leave a message; if you’re not, please call me back~.”
…Fucking Shamal.
He almost hangs up, but something keeps him on the line; maybe the sick feeling in his stomach that still hasn’t let up, or maybe just the alcohol. Whatever it is, he’s still holding the phone when the machine beeps, and for some reason, like a switch in his brain has just been pushed, he actually finds himself talking.
“…Hey. Idiot doctor. This is… fuck, you already know. Uh. I just… shit, this was a bad idea…” A pause. Then, “I did… something. …I killed a guy.”
He pauses again, this time not because he can’t think of what to say, but because his throat’s gone dry once more at the thought of it.
“And, I… I don’t know. You’re an assassin, right? So you should know… how the hell do you… I mean, it-fuck, I don’t know, I just want to stop thinking about it! What the hell am I suppose-”
Click.
This time he really almost does hang up, because oh, shit. Suddenly he wonders what the fuck he was thinking, calling him-he doesn’t really want to talk to him, doesn’t need him being a condescending bastard like he always is-
And sure enough, the voice on the other end of the line sounds weary and patronizing like always. “I’m not a therapist, Hayato.”
Gokudera bristles, going slightly red even though they’re in different rooms, different countries.
“Fuck you, I’m not looking for therapy. I just want…”
Except that he can’t voice exactly what it is he really wants, because he still can’t figure it out himself.
There’s a giggle from someone not-Shamal on the other end of the line that makes him narrow his eyes, and then the faint mumbling of Shamal’s voice as he says something perverted-sounding that he can’t make out. Gokudera has a flash of-something-some emotion he can’t figure out, but it pisses him off-and comes to the abrupt realization that whatever it is he does need, either way he won’t be able to get it from Shamal, who clearly has other priorities.
“Fuck. Forget it,” he mutters angrily, and hangs up before he can change his mind.
For a few minutes, he just sits there on the couch, rubbing at his temples with his free hand, the other still gripping the phone, which stays silent.
Then, for reasons he doesn’t even know, he keys a quick text to Yamamoto, then flips the phone shut and tosses it onto the table, turning to lie down facing the back of the couch.
There are a bunch of them-this kind of scum always travels in packs-and for the most part they’re small-time, but they number enough to still be dangerous. Fortunately, Gokudera’s position is much improved on the last time, and he’s got room to use the Sistema C.A.I. to the best of his ability now. The shields are flying, his skull weapon is charged, and one by one, the enemies are slowly being brought down.
He lost track of Yamamoto a few minutes ago; he’s no more than a blip on his peripheral sense of things now, but he’s not worried. The other man may be an idiot, but even Gokudera can grudgingly admit he can hold his own in a fight. Even if this is a big group, it’s all right; they can handle it.
And they do.
It’s in the aftermath of things, when he’s taking stock of the damage to both sides, that he gets another jolt of something-is-wrong. He’s looking at the guys strewn all over the floor, and he can tell pretty easily which ones he got and which ones were taken down by Yamamoto, because some are burned and others are bleeding.
And some-a very few, but still some-are no longer breathing.
It sends a chill up his spine when he realizes it-he even kneels down to check more closely, just to make sure-but there it is. They really are dead. None of the ones that he took down; just a couple of Yamamoto’s. Only two people… but barely two months ago he would have never thought Yamamoto capable of killing anyone, and now just like that, the count is up to three in total.
He thinks of those eyes again, and-
-jumps as a hand is suddenly placed on his shoulder. He whirls around, and speak of the devil. Yamamoto is laughing, presumably at Gokudera’s startled reaction, and while this would normally prompt Gokudera to go on an angry tirade, all he can think at this very moment is: This is the same guy that did that? There’s no way.
“Sorry, sorry! Didn’t mean to surprise you,” Yamamoto says apologetically, cutting into his thoughts.
“Tch.” Gokudera eyes him closely, scanning for that not-right feeling that’s been there more and more over the last few weeks. “Don’t fucking sneak up on me like that.”
Yamamoto just grins. “You okay?”
“…Yeah. You?”
Bam. There it is. Either Yamamoto’s getting worse at hiding it, or Gokudera’s just getting better at picking it up, but it’s definitely there. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
No, you’re not.
“…Gokudera?” Belatedly, Gokudera realizes he’s frowning, and something must look off on his end as well, because Yamamoto is looking at him with concern. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
Gokudera just meets his eyes as pointedly as he can, and then turns to watch as a couple of guys from the Vongola’s clean-up squad heft one of the dead men up on a stretcher, and then zip a body bag over his head.
Slowly, he turns to look at Yamamoto once again, only to find that the other is no longer looking back, but turned away.
“You gonna explain that, Baseball Freak?” Gokudera says quietly at last.
Yamamoto’s reply, when he finally speaks, surprises him more than anything else has so far.
“No.”
If he hadn’t known already, he’d need no other sign to realize that something was terribly wrong.
“Were they even… were they that bad?” he asks hesitantly. Before, at least, the kill had been in self-defense, or at least in Gokudera’s self-defense. But now… well, Gokudera had been sure they’d be able to take these guys. Had they posed that much of a threat that he’d really needed to do this?
“…It wasn’t that,” Yamamoto says at last.
“Then…?”
Yamamoto finally turns to face him again, and the not-right look in his eyes is there; he’s not even trying to hide it anymore. For a moment, Gokudera is torn between the two equally absurd notions of backing away from him, and punching him in the face.
“I did it so no one else would have to.”
Gokudera just stares at him, first in confusion, and then in dawning comprehension as the meaning of that finally kicks in.
“Tsuna… he’s not like that, is he?” Yamamoto continues. “And he wouldn’t want you guys to be, either. So… that’s why. To protect him.”
Gokudera wonders distractedly in the back of his mind exactly what prompted him to kill those two, then. Did he think that with Gokudera still recovering from some of his injuries that they’d have posed a serious threat? Or did he think Gokudera would be forced to do it if he didn’t? Or that if they’d lived, they’d have eventually come back for revenge and that one of them would have had to kill them then?
And fuck, if Yamamoto really believes what he’s saying, does it even matter? Trying to protect them… killing so that they won’t have to?
Bullshit.
The following night, Gokudera makes some inquiries through the Vongola network and chooses a hit assignment, pulling rank to steal the mission from one of Vongola’s assassins. He chooses it carefully, making sure the target is deserving and that he’ll be able to do it without endangering anyone else. He then plans the hit so that he won’t have to do it up close. Everything is calculated and painstakingly designed to ease him into his own first kill, to raise him up to that next level, so that no one will ever need to worry about protecting him like that again. So that he can stop Yamamoto from putting this all on himself.
It doesn’t work. None of it-the rational approach, the superficial distance from the act-none of it works the way he had planned. It’s still killing, and apparently he sucks at it. Maybe this was a bad idea.
Maybe this was a very bad idea.
But hindsight’s fucking twenty-twenty.
He’s still lying there on the couch, thinking aimlessly and fighting off the headache of his life, when there’s a knock on the door.
Staggering to his feet, he stumbles over, fumbles with the lock, and throws the door open. Then, before any part of his brain can catch up to him and stop him from doing so, he demands of the person on the doorstep, “How the hell do you do it?”
Yamamoto looks a little startled, but not nearly as taken aback as he should, all things considered, which pisses Gokudera off. Stupid unflappable baseball idiot. “Do what?” Yamamoto asks after a moment.
“Deal with it! Just fucking deal with it like it’s-like you’re not-it’s not… damn it!” Gokudera grabs the collar of the other man’s shirt in frustration, but it doesn’t quite work as planned, because instead of angrily yanking the other man in close to yell at him more, he ends up nearly losing his balance and clinging to him to keep from falling over.
Yamamoto patiently steadies him, then pauses as he notes Gokudera’s breath (and possibly the dried vomit by the door). “Gokudera… are you drunk?”
“Shut up!”
“Ha ha!” For a moment Yamamoto looks awkward, but then he pats Gokudera on the shoulder and takes a step forward into the apartment. “You are!”
“I said, shut up!”
“Maa, maa! You should sit down-”
“How do you deal with killing someone?”
Yamamoto freezes.
Gokudera just stands there, glaring at him and still gripping his shirt, thinking to himself that he won’t let go until he gets an answer. After a heavy silence, Yamamoto finally takes another step inside and closes the door behind him.
“…We really should sit down.”
“Fuck you, just answer me!”
“Gokudera.” Yamamoto meets his eyes searchingly, and for the first time that night Gokudera actually backs off a little, because it feels like Yamamoto can see right through him, and it feels like he’s all right there, and this was a bad idea, he should have at least waited until he wasn’t drunk or hungover-
“Did you…?” Yamamoto finally asks quietly, and Gokudera feels himself shudder involuntarily as he thinks yet again of that stupid hit and that stupid corpse, and-fuck.
Wordlessly, Yamamoto grips Gokudera’s shoulders and steers him back to the couch, Gokudera too preoccupied with avoiding that concerned stare to protest. Yamamoto sits them both on the couch, then starts to stand up again, but Gokudera’s brain finally kicks in once more and he yanks him back down. Yamamoto calmly grips his hand and starts to pry it off, and Gokudera curls his other hand into a fist, lifting it threateningly.
“Don’t you fucking dare.”
“I’m not going anywhere; I’m just going to get you something to drink.”
“I don’t need anything!”
“Just a glass of water or something. To help clear your head.”
“Just answer me already, Baseball Freak!”
Yamamoto pauses, then sighs. His hand drops down and he looks away.
Finally he says, “I don’t know.”
“-What?”
“I don’t… really know how to deal with it.” A weak laugh, then: “Actually… I don’t really think I do.”
“…What do you mean? You don’t what?”
“I don’t really… feel it the way I should, I guess. It’s weird. Heh, for a while I thought there was something really wrong with me. Maybe there is.” He laughs again, still avoiding his eyes.
Gokudera frowns, trying to understand. “You’re saying it really doesn’t… bother you? At all?”
“No, no, I don’t mean that! Well… of course it bothers me… because it’s still another human being, right? And it’s… it doesn’t feel right, to do that. I don’t think I could ever really be okay with it. But, well… I guess it just doesn’t affect me as much. Or at least it doesn’t feel that way, you know?”
Gokudera is silent for a moment before finally letting his hand drop from the other’s shirt. Of course. Of course Yamamoto would be all right with it, would just know somehow how to handle it. Would just naturally be so much better than him at dealing with it. Like everything else.
“…I said it already, didn’t I?” Yamamoto starts up again. “Why I was doing it?”
Gokudera looks away, and says nothing.
“To protect the rest of you. So that you don’t have to.”
“I don’t need your fucking protection,” Gokudera growls suddenly.
Yamamoto eyes him seriously. Then he says, “I know you don’t. But I want to.”
At last, Gokudera looks back at him, and immediately knows that was a mistake, because there it is again, that look… only suddenly it doesn’t seem alien to him at all. Suddenly, Gokudera knows exactly what that look really means and why it’s there.
And more than anything, he wishes he could have that ignorance back.
Suddenly all the rage in him evaporates and all he feels is shaken and weary and sick and on edge. He doesn’t care that it’s Yamamoto there, doesn’t care about appearing weak; just wants, needs to voice the fear in his gut before it chokes him.
“…How can I be the right hand man if I can’t even perform a hit without falling apart?”
Suddenly Yamamoto has a hand on his shoulder and Gokudera looks up, surprised.
“You’re a good Right Hand,” Yamamoto says, meeting his eyes firmly. “You’re exactly the kind of Right Hand that Tsuna needs.”
Startled, both at the statement and the firmness in Yamamoto’s voice, Gokudera just blinks and stares back.
Exactly the Right Hand that Tsuna needs.
Of course… the Tenth isn’t that kind of person. He’s not the type who would or could ever be comfortable with killing. And if he’s not like that… well, then, maybe it’s not a bad thing if his family doesn’t get comfortable with it either. That wouldn’t be the kind of family he’d want.
But then… Gokudera frowns. “But what about you?”
Yamamoto pauses, then smiles.
“Don’t worry about me. I had a chat with the kid.”
“With Reborn-san?” Gokudera blinks.
“Yeah. He said… well, I think I understand it a little better now. I’m not really… not quite like you and Tsuna.” Again the smile, as though he’s trying to look reassuring. “So don’t worry about it, okay? Just let me handle it. I’ve got your back.”
Gokudera’s frown deepens, and he slowly takes a deep breath, feeling a little calmer than before.
“…No,” he says at last.
“Maa…” Yamamoto looks a little pained. “Gokudera…”
“I don’t need you fucking baby-sitting me.”
“Gokudera, it’s not-”
“It’s the job of the right hand man to look after all of the guardians,” Gokudera cuts him off. “Weren’t you the one who said that? And now you want me to just sit back and watch you do all the dirty work? Forget it!”
He meets Yamamoto’s eyes and looks at them, determined, finally feeling like he understands. “We either do it as a team or not at all.”
Yamamoto stares at him-and now he finally does look taken aback.
Then, slowly at first but with increasing mirth, he starts to laugh. Happily; his old laugh. Like back before all of this started.
Confused, and feeling a little self-conscious-drunk or not, the idiot had better still be taking him seriously-Gokudera scowls at him. “Don’t fucking laugh! What the hell’s your problem?”
But Yamamoto just waves a placating hand. “Sorry, sorry! It’s just… ha ha, wow. I feel like I just remembered something after a long time, you know?”
A pause, and he sobers up again, but still in that calm, contented way as he meets Gokudera’s eyes.
“I guess… you’re right. All for one and one for all, right?”
Gokudera flushes a little and looks away. “…Don’t fucking say it like that. It sounds gay.”
At that, Yamamoto starts laughing even harder than before. “Ha ha, but it’s true!”
“…Tch.”
Still laughing, Yamamoto slings an arm around him, and Gokudera reluctantly allows it, blaming his willingness to tolerate the idiot on his blood alcohol level. The other man leans on him cheerfully, but somehow he seems lighter than he did before. Gokudera thinks he can understand that, though; he sort of feels the same way.
It’s strange, he thinks, how much of a difference it makes when there’s someone else there who’s willing to share a burden with you.
Maybe that was the error in his reasoning. Rationale can only take things so far; sometimes it takes a force you can’t calculate to put you over the top.
Next time he’ll have to make sure to account for that, too.
NOW ACCEPTING CRIT, sob. As always, I am horribly unsure of my Yamamoto and Gokudera characterization, though to be honest that's the least of my concerns with this fic. Oh well.