from Russia with love [Mukuro, Chrome main]
Title: from Russia with Love
Author: umarekawareru
Fandom: Katekyo Hitman REBORN!
Rating: PG
Genre: Mostly gen.
Characters: Chrome, Mukuro, Ken, Chikusa, Lancia, Hibari, Tsuna.
Wordcount: 6,423
Disclaimer: Chrome and the rest are definitely not mine. I just wish!
Summary: Distance makes the heart grow fonder. Or something like it.
Author’s Notes: This fic was originally posted here, and won the Theme Challenge at khr_undercover (along with lysapadin's They Also Serve). Regardless of that, it's a very special piece to me; not only because of the writing itself (which I'd say is probably my best yet) but because, story-wise, I think I accomplished everything I set out to do. I am very emotionally attached to this story, and I really enjoyed writing this; I hope the reader can enjoy it as well. ♥
[ The concepts of Heaven and Hell are widely-known by all kinds of people, regardless of age, race or religion. Just like not two minds are the same, not two descriptions of Heaven and Hell are the same, but those differences are insignificant. Doomsday by any other name would be just as fearsome. That fear simply feeds on the endless variety; in the end, the human mind is the only worthy opponent for the human mind.
As for me, brought up surrounded by crucifixes, I never believed in God. Who wants a god that considers newborn children tainted with sin from the moment they take their first breath? Who wants a god who waits until the end of time to reward your efforts, and stands back while you suffer? Certainly not me -- no god had ever dedicated even a second of their endless time to help me, and I wasn't about to spend hours of my own, limited time praying in return for that absolute lack of compassion.
Wait, no, that's not exactly right.
I remember that one time I found myself standing in the middle of -- Limbo, the Garden of Eden, nowhere -- the name is irrelevant. I remember watching my body lying on the hospital bed a few metres away from where I stood and thinking, as if in a trance, that it was a wider gap than I'd ever be able to bridge, no matter how fast I walked or for how long. It was the weirdest sensation I've ever had, but I guessed it'd eventually numb as the novelty of being dead wore off.
As I was pondering this, the wind picked up out of the blue. Truth be told, it wasn't a particularly strong wind, but I was so surprised at the suddenness of it that I fell to the ground. (In my defense, ghosts of dead people aren't known for their sturdiness.) Laughter resonated behind me; a rich sound, more amused than mocking -- which was, I found, a nice change; maybe being dead wasn't that bad after all.
(Maybe I, a mere spirit, should not have been able to hear that sound, or to see the person that produced it -- after all, my auditive and optical systems were just as incorporeal as the rest of me -- but I never considered that possibility; therefore, my eyes and ears worked perfectly. The human mind is truly a marvelous thing.)
"Nagi," said this person, looking at me with mismatched eyes. I didn't ask how he knew my name; maybe he knew it just by believing he did. "You and I might be alike."
He held out his hand to me, a gesture so simple and yet so full of meaning that I felt like I could believe anything this person said, like this was what I had died for, and it seemed like the best possible death. If this was really death -- I had never felt this alive before, not even when I had a pulse. And I was no longer afraid.
So I closed my eyes, took his hand and let him pull me to my feet. ]
✗✗✗ from Russia, with love, ✗✗✗
The winter they move into the hideout, the pond at Namimori Shrine freezes over.
Gazing at the off-white landscape from the vantage point atop one of the long-abandoned zoo cages, the view is dream-like, as if belonging to an alternate reality in which only the snowflakes falling all around dispel the illusion of timelessness. Unfolding before her eyes are acres upon acres of snow-shrouded grass and trees, the monochrome broken only by the decayful debris of the old zoo. In those atemporal instants, there seems to be no end in sight; where the snow-blanketed earth ends the greyish sky begins, and even they are inexorably bound by an off-white horizon.
This far from the city nucleus, the silence is almost absolute; there is a lethargic sense of peace radiating from every snowflake that falls from the heavens onto the ground. Then, beneath that pristine veil, the hidden base of one of the most sinful mafia families that have ever existed. She spares a thought for the irony of it all -- a wolf in snow-white clothing, isn't that how the idiom goes? -- and her amused chuckle gets lost in the air, wasted because there is no one to hear it.
On top of that rusting metal cage, she is -- complete and undeniably -- alone.
✗✗✗
As she marches uphill in Kokuyou Land, her boots sink into the snow with every step she takes, making mobility a difficult task. Nevertheless, she pushes onward, using her staff in the way of the peregrine and keeping an eye out for the overburdened branches that crack loose every now and then, falling to the path and scattering more snow in their wake. After she's been walking for a while, she starts to spot claw marks on some of the trunks, and she follows the path they designate all the way to the top of the hill.
She walks into the decaying building through the hole in the wall that has become the entrance by default, and stops a few moments to shake snow out of her hair and coat. A few droplets of ice trickle into her clothing, melting on contact with her skin and making a shiver run down her spine. Despite the ceiling above her head, inside the abandoned building it's still difficult to shake off the cold immediately. That wintery chill insinuates itself into her clothes and wraps around her like frozen vines as she advances through the passageways and up the stairs, so that not even the tongue of flame she's cupping in her free hand manages to banish it completely. She takes a deep breath, trying to adjust, and when she lets it out it fogs and clings to the air, as if reluctant to disappear.
The first sounds of the day reach out to her through the gap beneath a closed door on the second story. She stops in her tracks for a few seconds, focusing on those sounds -- the pages of a book being turned, slow but unnaturally loud breathing -- and then climbs the last two steps. When she reaches the door in question, she allows the little flame to dissolve in a shower of indigo sparks, wraps her now free hand around the knob, and turns it.
"Ken," she calls to the room at large, squinting at the sudden change in lighting. "Chikusa."
No verbal acknowledgement comes, but there is a brief moment of silence in which Ken stops breathing for a nano-second and Chikusa stops folding and unfolding the corner of a page between his fingers. Chrome takes that pause as her cue, and lets herself in all the way, then closes the door behind her.
"It's already morning," she announces, stating the obvious.
Light pours in through the large and only window in the far side of the room, punctuating the shadows on this side. The rays reflect off of what looks like a broken CD and gives away the presence of other random pieces of junk scattered on the floor next to it. With practiced ease, Chrome sidesteps an empty bottle of mineral water and a pair of sneakers that look like their owner just kicked them off without regard for where or how they landed. They're probably Ken's, she thinks with a fond roll of her eyes.
The battered old couch is turned away from the source of light in a desperate attempt to make up for the lack of curtains. Ken's breathing has evened again, but the rhythm is fast enough that Chrome knows he's awake.
"You'll catch cold," she tells him after a moment.
Ken has recently developed a habit of sleeping on his side, in fetal position, which is probably because it's the optimal position for retaining body heat, or because he no longer fits in that sofa if he stretches his legs, or probably due to a combination of the two. Chrome looks around her, scanning the floor, and finally spots a camouflage-patterned blanket a few metres away.
"Whatever," Ken eventually replies, moodily, but snatches the blanket from her hands all the same. Chrome's hands hang at her sides awkwardly as she watches him throw the blanket haphazardly over himself and struggle with it for a full two minutes before giving up on trying to cover his bare feet. She is on the verge of making a move to help him, despite the protests that it will no doubt produce, but then Ken closes his eyes again and cuddles deeper into the couch, apparently deciding to ignore her presence.
"Has he contacted you again?"
The voice compels Chrome to turn around. "Chikusa," she greets him, and tries not to bite her lip the way she always does when she's nervous.
Outside, the peaceful weather from before has turned into a full-blown blizzard, making the windowpanes rattle noisily and the temperature in the room to drop even lower if possible.
Chrome takes a deep breath and says the words she has been practising in her head over and over again for almost a week now. "We should move into the Namimori base."
She can predict the explosion before it hits -- a moment's shock, turned into indignation, turned into Ken and Chikusa stiffening defensively --
"It's warmer there," she hurries to elaborate. "There's plenty of food, and they told me it wouldn't be a problem to arrange rooms far apart from everyone else's, and of course --"
"Like hell," Ken spits out, sitting up to look at her with a mixture of anger and contempt. "We're not going anywhere without Mukuro-san, and that's the end of it."
"It doesn't have to be forever, at least until winter passes --"
"The answer is still no," Ken cuts her off with a tone that leaves no room for discussion.
Chrome stands there, wondering what else she can say. She should have planned a response for this beforehand -- it's not like she ever entertained the thought that they would gladly agree to her request. "I," she begins weakly, but she doesn't know how to follow that up and so the counter-argument dies on her lips.
A bag is thrown at her feet. Chrome looks at it, dumbstruck when she realises it's the one that contains all of her belongings. "Ken, Chikusa, what --"
"If you like, you can go with your Boss," Ken tells her, spitting the word out like a curse, "but we'll wait for Mukuro-san here, until he comes back -- whenever that is."
They just kicked you out, Chrome's mind supplies helpfully (her own mind, which makes it ten times worse), and she bends down numbly and picks up the bag, letting the strap rest on her shoulder. She can barely feel the weight through her shock as she turns around and walks toward the door.
"If he contacts you," Chikusa's voice chases after her, and it sounds almost pleading, the desperate prayer of the forsaken, "please come and tell us."
She nods imperceptibly, and hears Ken flop back down onto the couch. It's the sound of dismissal. "Leave her, Kaki-pi."
Once outside, she lets the flame appear again, more intense this time. For a moment she just stands there, watching the wave energy bleed off into the visible spectrum, and then, on auto-pilot, begins the descent.
✗✗✗
Monday, January 6, 20XX
Dear Chrome Dokuro-san,
Thank you for your letter, unexpected as it was. I am glad to hear that Vongola is doing as well as possible under the current circumstances, and wish you the best in your future battles as well.
I am currently living in Rome -- as you might have noticed from the postmark --, enjoying an utterly boring and uneventful life for the first time in recorded history. Your letter brought back some bitter memories, and to be honest, I seriously considered ignoring it completely, but still I find myself replying; hopefully, in this way I can atone for the things I did back then.
First of all, I must say I have not had any further contact with Rokudo Mukuro since the events at Kokuyou Land six years ago. Of course, it is undeniable that some of the link between us remains -- a possession as complete and lasting as the one I suffered can hardly be expected to vanish without a trace, no matter how long a time passes. Months after being released, I would still be impressed by echoes of his emotional state if I let my guard down even for a little while. However, these dreams and afterimages faded little by little, so gradually that I barely noticed.
I do not doubt that even now I would be able to... refresh, so to speak, this connection between us if I concentrated hard and long enough, but I am not generous or reckless enough to attempt it. As my life stands right now, the biggest of my worries is trying to avoid attack by the vicious flocks of pigeons that swarm the squares and monument sites of this city, and I would be very happy if it were to remain that way.
I am very sorry that I can not be of any help to you, Dokuro-san. I am, however, glad that you seem to be in good health despite his continued absence. Still, I understand that your link to him differs from mine in every possible sense, so I would like to at least provide a little reassurance. Personally, I do not think that he has come to any harm; in the past, he cut off all communication with me and lived to tell the tale. I would expect it would take a lot more than that to finish him -- you know how they say the devil looks after his own.
Please pass my best sentiments onto Sawada-san. You are all young still, and certainly much too stressed for your years; perhaps a little Roman holiday would do you well. The sun is setting as I write this, and the sky is all shades of pink and orange and other colours I can never hope to put into words; it's almost romantic.
Yours sincerely,
L. Lancia
Chrome folds the letter again carefully, taking care not to crease it, and tucks it into the envelope. The wax crest is now ripped, and in the dim light of evening it reminds her of blood.
"There was a small package with it," says Kusakabe-san, sliding a brown-wrapped box over to her. "We did a little security check, just in case, but there seems to be nothing wrong with it. We also made sure it didn't get tampered with at customs, so you can rest at ease."
She nods absently, the words of the letter still echoing inside her head as loudly and as cleary as if they had been spoken.
"Thank you."
"There is one other thing," Kusakabe-san continues. "The external advisor told me to inform you that rooms for Kakimoto Chikusa and Kojima Ken have been prepared in the main building, on the level below yours. If there is anything else you require, we have received orders from Sawada-san to accommodate all your needs, so please do not hesitate to ask."
Chrome's hands tighten around Lancia-san's parcel as she wonders what to say. Impersonal gratitude seems like the safest bet at the moment. "Thank you for your help. With everything," she adds as an afterthought, standing up.
She is suddenly overcome with an overwhelming urge to be alone, to re-read the letter as many times as necessary to find some sort of clue, anything to make her believe she isn't hoping in vain. She bows her leavetaking and barely stops herself from dashing out of the room.
The sound of her footsteps on polished wood is amplified by the silence in the corridor. Her head is a mess of thoughts and theories tangled together so tightly that if she tried to pull free one of the threads, the net would come undone before she could make sense of any of it. She struggles to banish the fears and worst-case scenarios clogging her brain, to no avail. Once inside her room, the full-length mirror opposite the door reflects her worries back at her. Lancia's letter is clutched tightly in her right hand, all previous concerns about conserving it long since defeated by the increasing anxiety.
Eleven months, going on twelve now -- a whole year with no contact whatsoever from Mukuro-sama. At first, she assumed he was busy with other things (though she didn't know what, she wasn't about to question it); it had certainly happened before. But then the fourth month rolled around, and then the fifth, and the sixth, and no 'other things' had ever kept Mukuro-sama occupied for so long. Her free hand falls to her abdomen instinctively, as if expecting it to cave in on some level of her subconscious. It's an absolutely unjustified concern; the unorgans function as smoothly as ever, almost cruel in their efficiency, as if completely ignorant of the gradual separation from the power that spawned them.
(Lancia's words echo inside her head -- I would be able to refresh the connection between us -- and she closes her eyes tight, trying to contact Mukuro-sama like countless times before, but her thought waves hit a wall and are returned to her, unanswered.)
The box from Lancia contains Panetone, it turns out. Chrome stares at it in confusion, not quite sure what she had expected -- certainly not this -- but after a moment she takes out her pocket knife and cuts a slice. It feels light on her tongue, despite the long journey, and her stomach grumbles appreciatively upon receiving it. Then she divides what's left into three parts: one for the boss, one for Ken and Chikusa, and another for --
Well, just in case.
(Silence. At six-thirty in the evening of the 14th of January, Chrome Dokuro's mind is her own. She fears, not for herself, and puts the brown parcel away.)
✗✗✗
Morning comes much too soon, or perhaps much too late; she's been staring at the ceiling for so long that if not for the bedside clock, she would have completely lost all track of time. To her sleep-deprived mind, the day feels like nothing more than a sunlit continuation of the night that preceded it, equally fraught with useless thoughts and ever-strengthening worries, and so it takes Chrome quite a while to convince herself that it might be good to get out of bed and try for some semblance of productivity, if only to break the monotony a little.
Lancia's letter sits on her desk where she left it an indefinite time ago, and it's only through sheer willpower that Chrome stops herself from opening and rereading it for the umpteenth time, even though the words are already more than etched into her brain. She combs her hair with her fingers in some desperate attempt to make it not look like she just spent the last twelve hours tossing around in bed, which proves to be an exercise in futility, so eventually she gives it up as a bad job and walks out into the corridor, Lancia's parcel tucked safely under one arm.
The boss' room is on the level directly below hers, but it seems to take her an eternity to arrive there, like in one of those dreams in which you walk and walk but never reach the end of the corridor. When she finally does get there, it occurs to her that it might be too early for a visit; if she remembers correctly, the boss had a video conference with the 9th in Italy last night, and he might not be awake yet. She stands in front of the door, hesitating, and eventually decides to take her chances and knock, letting herself in when no reply comes.
A beacon of light pours in from the corridor when she opens the door, bringing out Tsuna's silhouette and drawing her attention to the small frown on his forehead, which makes him look like whatever dream he's having requires his full attention. Smiling to herself, she leaves a piece of panetone on his bedside table, along with a note -- Greetings from Rome -- and lets herself out quietly, careful not to wake him up.
She's on her way to the kitchen for a cup of coffee when she hears her name being called, and turns around. "Good morning, Kusakabe-san," she says amiably. In a remote corner of her mind, some part of her chuckles humorlessly at the oxymoron, but she ignores it and bows her head slightly in greeting.
"Good morning, Dokuro-san," the man replies, jogging to catch up with her. "Are you busy right now?"
"Not really," Chrome admits, resenting the tedium of not having anyone to pass the time with now that Ken and Chikusa aren't talking to her.
Kusakabe-san offers her a cup of coffee in the other building, which she accepts gladly; there's nobody in Namimori base who can refuse a cup of Hibari's imported Italian coffee. It's fortunate that Hibari hasn't yet made the connection between the coffee and the visits; the day he does, it will probably mean goodbye to the coffee, and Chrome thinks that might be one tragedy too many.
"Kyou-san returned from Naples this morning," Kusakabe-san tells her, keeping it vague on purpose. "He wanted to talk to you about something strange he noticed while taking care of some business."
Chrome's curiosity is piqued, but she doesn't prompt him to elaborate. They walk in companionable silence for a little while longer, and when they arrive at their destination she takes a seat at the kotatsu and waits for Hibari to arrive. He's still resting from the flight, she is told, but he should be with her shortly.
"Meanwhile I'll go get that coffee I promised you," Kusakabe-san tells her with a knowing quirk of his lips, and she smiles back gratefully.
The rice-paper door slides shut and, as if on cue, Chrome's mind starts drifting away without asking for her permission. After a couple of minutes, she finds herself examining the room around her. The floor is covered with tatami mats, in keeping with the Japanese-style decoration Hibari seems to favour, and the smell of incense burning floats over to her from the far corner. The warmth of the kotatsu soon spreads to the rest of her body, and she throws a surreptious look around before giving in to the temptation of resting her head on the table. This is nice, she thinks with a contented grin, and little by little she becomes unable to keep her eyes open. At some point she stops trying, and darkness envelops her.
✗✗✗
The night stank of corruption and decay, thought the child Rokudou Mukuro as he stood in the center of the playground. Or maybe the stench of rotting souls was so firmly lodged in his nostrils that he was no longer capable of identifying any other smells, even when he stood outside the research lab.
He directed his gaze heavenward, entranced as always by the only part of his surroundings that wasn't guarded by a chainlink fence. The night sky was vast and inviting, endless by virtue of its deep blue tones that melted into utmost darkness, making it difficult to tell where the sky began and where it ended, if it did at all. Every night without fail, he would wait for the wires and sensors to be disconnected, and the monitors to be switched off; it was then that, taking advantage of the cover dark provided, he would sneak out through the broken window in the basement and lie on the wild grass, gazing up at the stars like some idealist from a long-past age.
He'd been seeing visions inside his head lately. Not dreams; he slept so lightly he never paid enough attention to remember his dreams, always alert on some level of his subconscious for the sounds of the researchers' approaching footsteps. They weren't real dreams, but they resembled dreams in that he could always recognize himself somehow, no matter how different he looked. In these visions, he saw himself crippled by pain, starving but never dying, ignorant, bloodthirsty and murderous, hating like only humans can hate, almost attaining peace but always falling, always going back to repeat the cycle over and over again. Little by little, he started remembering things he had never done, places he had never seen and strength he had never wielded, and he yearned for it to be his own at the same time he felt it as such.
The night sky spread above his head, with no care for the troubles of the living, and he envied it for its freedom, its godlike elegance that could never be bound in a million years, unlike him who was --
Falling, deeper and deeper, where there was no light and no indication that it had ever existed, and then deeper still, plunged into an all-consuming darkness that would have suffocated him if not for the oxygen mask that rested over his nose and mouth, keeping him as close to alive as he needed to be in order to suffer. Strong chains bound his whole body, and he lay cocooned in a corner of his mind, seeking even the slightest crack in the barrier through which he could slip and be free, but there was none; he was drowning in his own claustrophobia every time he breathed in, in, in, but never out --
✗✗✗
-- And then Chrome wakes up, gasping for air like a fish out of water.
"Dokuro-san!"
The voice reverberates inside her head painfully, hitting the walls inside with dizzying intensity. The sudden exposure to light blinds her for a few moments during which she believes she is still trapped --
"Dokuro-san!"
More insistent this time, and then a hand on her shoulder shakes her and pulls her back to reality.
"Kusakabe-san," she says slowly, squinting as her brain works to make sense of the sudden change in her environment. She appears to be in a Japanese-style decorated room, and her feet are unusually warm (kotatsu, her mind prompta helpfully); she must have fallen asleep waiting for Hibari, she realises with a pang of embarrassment. Kusakabe-san's presence seems to at least confirm that theory, which only leaves one thing to worry about. "Mukuro-sama," she breathes out, as the truth of what she has just seen hits her like a blow to the gut.
"What is all this ruckus?"
The rice-paper door slides open, revealing a very aggravated- and jetlagged-looking Hibari; definitely not a good sign, but Chrome is too upset to be intimidated. Fixing them both with a murderous stare, he goes on to ask, "Why can't I get any sleep in my own house?" and then, rounding on Chrome, "I'm never inviting you over again."
"I am terribly sorry, Kyou-san," begins Kusakabe-san, looking a lot like he means it. "Dokuro-san fell asleep while I was making coffee. I think she was having a bad dream, she kept tossing and mumbling in her sleep --"
"It wasn't a dream," Chrome interrupts, sitting up brusquely. Her vision swims from the sudden motion, but she ignores it, just like she ignores Hibari's obvious displeasure; there are more important things to take care of. "Just now, I saw Mukuro-sama. I was Mukuro-sama. I was inside his head."
Hibari regards her for a moment. She notes absently that he has shifted ever so slightly; his eyes have narrowed, taking on a look of downright hostility, and his stance has an air of defensiveness about it, as if the mere mention of Mukuro-sama's name has awakened some sort of primal instinct within him. "You're sure it wasn't a dream," he states rather than asks, taking in the determined expression on her face. "Tetsu, care to bring us something to eat?"
Kusakabe-san nods and gets up; when the door closes after him, Hibari crosses his arms in front of his chest and says, eyes fixed on her and voice taut with tension, "Tell me everything you saw."
So she does.
She tells him everything: about the letter, about the dream, about her inability to reach Mukuro-sama. Hibari listens intently through it all, only glancing away when Kusakabe walks back in, and even then only for a few seconds. A muscle along his jaw tenses as she tells the story, but whatever he's thinking he doesn't say, presumably preferring to wait until the end.
When Chrome finishes, he holds his silence for a moment longer. Then he looks her in the eye and asks, "What are you going to do?"
Chrome takes a sip of her coffee and nods absently. "I think something bad has happened, for the link to have weakened like this," she begins, thinking of the best way to phrase it. "I'm going to help him."
"His name is not on the 'deceased' list of the prison," Hibari challenges, watching her closely. "For all you know, he might just have moved on to someone else's mind."
Chrome takes a deep steadying breath, and holds his gaze. "Even so, I'm not going to sit around doing nothing when there is the slightest possibility that he could be in trouble," she says, and knows it to be the truth.
She thinks she sees the flicker of a smile on Hibari's face, but then he gets up to open a nearby chest, and her view is obscured. He stares at its contents for a few moments, and then returns with what looks like a cloud-attribute box. Chrome glances at Kusakabe-san, who looks just as bemused as she feels; the trepidation is thick in the air as one of the rings on Hibari's right hand is ignited and inserted into the box.
There is a brief flash of purple light, and then Hibari pulls out a yellowing scroll in the way of a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat and spreads it flat on the surface of the kotatsu. "This," he says to his enthralled audience, "is a map of Vendicare prison."
Unable to believe her ears, Chrome chooses to believe her eyes; she lets her gaze fall to the yellowish paper, examining every detail with something akin to reverence, trying to find something that will contradict Hibari's words, but there is nothing. She leans in as close as she dares to scrutiny it properly, and even with the evidence in front of her eyes she can't quite swallow her disbelief.
"This is impossible," Chrome muses out loud, trying to reason with herself through her awe. "All plans of Vendicare prison were supposed to have been destroyed. Even the guards aren't allowed to have a copy on paper of this plan."
"So I've heard," Hibari replies, humoring her. Then, seeing her gaze remains glued to the map (and likely to stay like that for a while), he gets up and uses his hand to cover a yawn. "I'm leaving that map there. You can stay up all night thinking of a hundred reasons why that plan is a fake if you so wish, but I'm going to take a nap."
Padded footsteps. A smooth sliding sound; the door being opened.
"Why?" Chrome manages at last, pulling her eyes away from the parchment with great effort. You're supposed to hate him, she wants to say. You're supposed to want him dead.
He stops in the threshold, just before walking out, not turning, and there's something primal about him when he says, "Because I'll be the one to kill him in the end. And you just need to make sure he doesn't die until then."
Chrome isn't sure what one is supposed to say in such a situation, so she voices the first thought that runs through her mind. "Thank you, Hibari-san."
Hibari does turn around this time, a vaguely amused glance thrown over his shoulder as he walks out into the corridor. "You're a strange woman," he tells her, and slides the door shut.
✗✗✗
When Chrome finishes examining the map (which takes a long time; every time she makes a move to put it away she feels the urge to look at it again to make sure it hasn't all been a product of her imagination), it is already late afternoon. Kusakabe-san volunteers to bring her lunch several times, but she declines, not feeling hungry in the slightest, although she does accept his offer of a flask of coffee to take with her (one for the road, he says with a smile, and she chuckles). Then she bows and leaves, the map safely locked in a storage box of her own and her heart beating madly inside her chest.
Chrome walks down the corridor as stealthily as she can, which is to say she barely makes a sound; stealth is a skill Nagi had needed to cultivate for various reasons, and one Chrome finds to be particularly useful if one is to pursue a career as a professional assassin. She also has a good memory, which enables her to remember which floorboards creak so she can avoid them; again, a skill from a different life which is unlikely to ever become obsolete.
There's someone else in the corridor with her. She feels his presence before she sees him, and stops in her tracks to wait.
"Chrome?" he calls, tentatively, approaching her. As he does so, he steps on the loose floorboard just outside Hibari's room, and Chrome has to do a really big effort not to break into a fit of giggles at the look on his face when said floorboard creaks loud enough to wake up all of Namimori.
"Boss," Chrome greets him, doing her best to keep her tone of voice neutral. "Did you sleep well?"
"Ah, yes. Actually, I wanted to thank you for the cake, and I was told you might be here, so I thought I'd drop by," Tsuna replies, scratching the back of his head and throwing nervous glances in the direction of Hibari's room. "Do you reckon I woke him up?"
Chrome stifles a laugh. "I think we'd have found out by now if that were the case," she reasons, then adds out of curiosity, "How did you know it was me who left the cake there?"
There's a hint of amusement in Tsuna's eyes as he says, "Hyper Intuition." When Chrome blinks at him with something like awe, he laughs and says, "No, actually, it's just that out of all the people currently living in Namimori Base, you're the only one whose handwriting I can understand. There's a reason all reports have to be typed, you know," he jokes.
Chrome puts a hand over her mouth to clamp down on the giggles. "Hibari-san is going to be mad if we wake him up," she says, but she can't bring herself to stop laughing.
"That would be painful," Tsuna agrees, and for a few moments they just stand there, unable to stop chuckling despite the imminent threat of being bitten to death for it. Then out of the blue, Tsuna says, "Are you leaving?"
Chrome sobers immediately at the unexpected question. "Yes," she says. There's no point in lying to the Boss, and at any rate, she finds she doesn't want to. Even though she could write her trip off as a much-needed vacation, and disappear without a trace, Chrome feels she owes him at least this much.
Tsuna is silent for a moment, maybe taking it all in, and then smiles and says, "Okay."
Just like that; the simplicity of his acceptance is a thing of wonder.
"You're not going to ask any questions?" Chrome asks in a small voice.
The Boss shrugs, and leans agains the wall almost thoughtfully. "Not really," he replies with a short laugh. "I trust you. Isn't that what Family's for?" he muses, looking her in the eye.
That's when it happens: one of those random deep moments that creep up on you suddenly and make every word echo for long moments after being said, and it almost feels like the atmosphere itself is holding its breath, waiting for some sort of turning point to happen and change everything. And things are going to change, Chrome has decided; this time, she's going to be the one to hold out her hand.
That's right, Chrome thinks with a smile. That's what Family's for.
"I'll definitely be back," she says out loud, and means it like a promise -- to the Boss, to Mukuro-sama, and to herself. There are other things she could say, sentences she has unconsciously rehearsed in the back of her mind in preparation for a moment like this, but they do not belong to this time or place. "With Mukuro-sama."
Right now, her truth is the biggest tribute she can offer.
"I guess you will," Tsuna agrees with a nervous laugh at the name. There isn't much light in the corridor, but Chrome can tell he's smiling. She can see him, not with her eyes, but with her mind; in the end, aren't both the same thing?
For a few moments, she stands there and believes it's time for goodbye. Or perhaps not, not just yet.
"See you later, Boss," Chrome tells him in purposefully-accented Japanese, and leans forward to plant a kiss on his cheek just like all those years ago, and adds, "now that Gokudera-san isn't here to shout at me."
Tsuna laughs at that. "It'll be our little secret. Take care," he says, nodding to her as if to tell her, go on.
So she smiles, nods back at him, and starts running.
✗✗✗
"What do you want, woman?" Ken grunts when she opens the door and bursts in. "We already told you, we're not joining forces with that --"
"Ken, Chikusa," she calls, ignoring the diatribe and extending her staff. Her heart is beating impossibly loudly; she's amazed they can't hear it. "Grab your things; we're going to save Mukuro-sama."
✗✗✗
[ Sometimes, a saving hand is all it takes. ]
Author: umarekawareru
Fandom: Katekyo Hitman REBORN!
Rating: PG
Genre: Mostly gen.
Characters: Chrome, Mukuro, Ken, Chikusa, Lancia, Hibari, Tsuna.
Wordcount: 6,423
Disclaimer: Chrome and the rest are definitely not mine. I just wish!
Summary: Distance makes the heart grow fonder. Or something like it.
Author’s Notes: This fic was originally posted here, and won the Theme Challenge at khr_undercover (along with lysapadin's They Also Serve). Regardless of that, it's a very special piece to me; not only because of the writing itself (which I'd say is probably my best yet) but because, story-wise, I think I accomplished everything I set out to do. I am very emotionally attached to this story, and I really enjoyed writing this; I hope the reader can enjoy it as well. ♥
[ The concepts of Heaven and Hell are widely-known by all kinds of people, regardless of age, race or religion. Just like not two minds are the same, not two descriptions of Heaven and Hell are the same, but those differences are insignificant. Doomsday by any other name would be just as fearsome. That fear simply feeds on the endless variety; in the end, the human mind is the only worthy opponent for the human mind.
As for me, brought up surrounded by crucifixes, I never believed in God. Who wants a god that considers newborn children tainted with sin from the moment they take their first breath? Who wants a god who waits until the end of time to reward your efforts, and stands back while you suffer? Certainly not me -- no god had ever dedicated even a second of their endless time to help me, and I wasn't about to spend hours of my own, limited time praying in return for that absolute lack of compassion.
Wait, no, that's not exactly right.
I remember that one time I found myself standing in the middle of -- Limbo, the Garden of Eden, nowhere -- the name is irrelevant. I remember watching my body lying on the hospital bed a few metres away from where I stood and thinking, as if in a trance, that it was a wider gap than I'd ever be able to bridge, no matter how fast I walked or for how long. It was the weirdest sensation I've ever had, but I guessed it'd eventually numb as the novelty of being dead wore off.
As I was pondering this, the wind picked up out of the blue. Truth be told, it wasn't a particularly strong wind, but I was so surprised at the suddenness of it that I fell to the ground. (In my defense, ghosts of dead people aren't known for their sturdiness.) Laughter resonated behind me; a rich sound, more amused than mocking -- which was, I found, a nice change; maybe being dead wasn't that bad after all.
(Maybe I, a mere spirit, should not have been able to hear that sound, or to see the person that produced it -- after all, my auditive and optical systems were just as incorporeal as the rest of me -- but I never considered that possibility; therefore, my eyes and ears worked perfectly. The human mind is truly a marvelous thing.)
"Nagi," said this person, looking at me with mismatched eyes. I didn't ask how he knew my name; maybe he knew it just by believing he did. "You and I might be alike."
He held out his hand to me, a gesture so simple and yet so full of meaning that I felt like I could believe anything this person said, like this was what I had died for, and it seemed like the best possible death. If this was really death -- I had never felt this alive before, not even when I had a pulse. And I was no longer afraid.
So I closed my eyes, took his hand and let him pull me to my feet. ]
✗✗✗ from Russia, with love, ✗✗✗
The winter they move into the hideout, the pond at Namimori Shrine freezes over.
Gazing at the off-white landscape from the vantage point atop one of the long-abandoned zoo cages, the view is dream-like, as if belonging to an alternate reality in which only the snowflakes falling all around dispel the illusion of timelessness. Unfolding before her eyes are acres upon acres of snow-shrouded grass and trees, the monochrome broken only by the decayful debris of the old zoo. In those atemporal instants, there seems to be no end in sight; where the snow-blanketed earth ends the greyish sky begins, and even they are inexorably bound by an off-white horizon.
This far from the city nucleus, the silence is almost absolute; there is a lethargic sense of peace radiating from every snowflake that falls from the heavens onto the ground. Then, beneath that pristine veil, the hidden base of one of the most sinful mafia families that have ever existed. She spares a thought for the irony of it all -- a wolf in snow-white clothing, isn't that how the idiom goes? -- and her amused chuckle gets lost in the air, wasted because there is no one to hear it.
On top of that rusting metal cage, she is -- complete and undeniably -- alone.
✗✗✗
As she marches uphill in Kokuyou Land, her boots sink into the snow with every step she takes, making mobility a difficult task. Nevertheless, she pushes onward, using her staff in the way of the peregrine and keeping an eye out for the overburdened branches that crack loose every now and then, falling to the path and scattering more snow in their wake. After she's been walking for a while, she starts to spot claw marks on some of the trunks, and she follows the path they designate all the way to the top of the hill.
She walks into the decaying building through the hole in the wall that has become the entrance by default, and stops a few moments to shake snow out of her hair and coat. A few droplets of ice trickle into her clothing, melting on contact with her skin and making a shiver run down her spine. Despite the ceiling above her head, inside the abandoned building it's still difficult to shake off the cold immediately. That wintery chill insinuates itself into her clothes and wraps around her like frozen vines as she advances through the passageways and up the stairs, so that not even the tongue of flame she's cupping in her free hand manages to banish it completely. She takes a deep breath, trying to adjust, and when she lets it out it fogs and clings to the air, as if reluctant to disappear.
The first sounds of the day reach out to her through the gap beneath a closed door on the second story. She stops in her tracks for a few seconds, focusing on those sounds -- the pages of a book being turned, slow but unnaturally loud breathing -- and then climbs the last two steps. When she reaches the door in question, she allows the little flame to dissolve in a shower of indigo sparks, wraps her now free hand around the knob, and turns it.
"Ken," she calls to the room at large, squinting at the sudden change in lighting. "Chikusa."
No verbal acknowledgement comes, but there is a brief moment of silence in which Ken stops breathing for a nano-second and Chikusa stops folding and unfolding the corner of a page between his fingers. Chrome takes that pause as her cue, and lets herself in all the way, then closes the door behind her.
"It's already morning," she announces, stating the obvious.
Light pours in through the large and only window in the far side of the room, punctuating the shadows on this side. The rays reflect off of what looks like a broken CD and gives away the presence of other random pieces of junk scattered on the floor next to it. With practiced ease, Chrome sidesteps an empty bottle of mineral water and a pair of sneakers that look like their owner just kicked them off without regard for where or how they landed. They're probably Ken's, she thinks with a fond roll of her eyes.
The battered old couch is turned away from the source of light in a desperate attempt to make up for the lack of curtains. Ken's breathing has evened again, but the rhythm is fast enough that Chrome knows he's awake.
"You'll catch cold," she tells him after a moment.
Ken has recently developed a habit of sleeping on his side, in fetal position, which is probably because it's the optimal position for retaining body heat, or because he no longer fits in that sofa if he stretches his legs, or probably due to a combination of the two. Chrome looks around her, scanning the floor, and finally spots a camouflage-patterned blanket a few metres away.
"Whatever," Ken eventually replies, moodily, but snatches the blanket from her hands all the same. Chrome's hands hang at her sides awkwardly as she watches him throw the blanket haphazardly over himself and struggle with it for a full two minutes before giving up on trying to cover his bare feet. She is on the verge of making a move to help him, despite the protests that it will no doubt produce, but then Ken closes his eyes again and cuddles deeper into the couch, apparently deciding to ignore her presence.
"Has he contacted you again?"
The voice compels Chrome to turn around. "Chikusa," she greets him, and tries not to bite her lip the way she always does when she's nervous.
Outside, the peaceful weather from before has turned into a full-blown blizzard, making the windowpanes rattle noisily and the temperature in the room to drop even lower if possible.
Chrome takes a deep breath and says the words she has been practising in her head over and over again for almost a week now. "We should move into the Namimori base."
She can predict the explosion before it hits -- a moment's shock, turned into indignation, turned into Ken and Chikusa stiffening defensively --
"It's warmer there," she hurries to elaborate. "There's plenty of food, and they told me it wouldn't be a problem to arrange rooms far apart from everyone else's, and of course --"
"Like hell," Ken spits out, sitting up to look at her with a mixture of anger and contempt. "We're not going anywhere without Mukuro-san, and that's the end of it."
"It doesn't have to be forever, at least until winter passes --"
"The answer is still no," Ken cuts her off with a tone that leaves no room for discussion.
Chrome stands there, wondering what else she can say. She should have planned a response for this beforehand -- it's not like she ever entertained the thought that they would gladly agree to her request. "I," she begins weakly, but she doesn't know how to follow that up and so the counter-argument dies on her lips.
A bag is thrown at her feet. Chrome looks at it, dumbstruck when she realises it's the one that contains all of her belongings. "Ken, Chikusa, what --"
"If you like, you can go with your Boss," Ken tells her, spitting the word out like a curse, "but we'll wait for Mukuro-san here, until he comes back -- whenever that is."
They just kicked you out, Chrome's mind supplies helpfully (her own mind, which makes it ten times worse), and she bends down numbly and picks up the bag, letting the strap rest on her shoulder. She can barely feel the weight through her shock as she turns around and walks toward the door.
"If he contacts you," Chikusa's voice chases after her, and it sounds almost pleading, the desperate prayer of the forsaken, "please come and tell us."
She nods imperceptibly, and hears Ken flop back down onto the couch. It's the sound of dismissal. "Leave her, Kaki-pi."
Once outside, she lets the flame appear again, more intense this time. For a moment she just stands there, watching the wave energy bleed off into the visible spectrum, and then, on auto-pilot, begins the descent.
✗✗✗
Monday, January 6, 20XX
Dear Chrome Dokuro-san,
Thank you for your letter, unexpected as it was. I am glad to hear that Vongola is doing as well as possible under the current circumstances, and wish you the best in your future battles as well.
I am currently living in Rome -- as you might have noticed from the postmark --, enjoying an utterly boring and uneventful life for the first time in recorded history. Your letter brought back some bitter memories, and to be honest, I seriously considered ignoring it completely, but still I find myself replying; hopefully, in this way I can atone for the things I did back then.
First of all, I must say I have not had any further contact with Rokudo Mukuro since the events at Kokuyou Land six years ago. Of course, it is undeniable that some of the link between us remains -- a possession as complete and lasting as the one I suffered can hardly be expected to vanish without a trace, no matter how long a time passes. Months after being released, I would still be impressed by echoes of his emotional state if I let my guard down even for a little while. However, these dreams and afterimages faded little by little, so gradually that I barely noticed.
I do not doubt that even now I would be able to... refresh, so to speak, this connection between us if I concentrated hard and long enough, but I am not generous or reckless enough to attempt it. As my life stands right now, the biggest of my worries is trying to avoid attack by the vicious flocks of pigeons that swarm the squares and monument sites of this city, and I would be very happy if it were to remain that way.
I am very sorry that I can not be of any help to you, Dokuro-san. I am, however, glad that you seem to be in good health despite his continued absence. Still, I understand that your link to him differs from mine in every possible sense, so I would like to at least provide a little reassurance. Personally, I do not think that he has come to any harm; in the past, he cut off all communication with me and lived to tell the tale. I would expect it would take a lot more than that to finish him -- you know how they say the devil looks after his own.
Please pass my best sentiments onto Sawada-san. You are all young still, and certainly much too stressed for your years; perhaps a little Roman holiday would do you well. The sun is setting as I write this, and the sky is all shades of pink and orange and other colours I can never hope to put into words; it's almost romantic.
Yours sincerely,
L. Lancia
Chrome folds the letter again carefully, taking care not to crease it, and tucks it into the envelope. The wax crest is now ripped, and in the dim light of evening it reminds her of blood.
"There was a small package with it," says Kusakabe-san, sliding a brown-wrapped box over to her. "We did a little security check, just in case, but there seems to be nothing wrong with it. We also made sure it didn't get tampered with at customs, so you can rest at ease."
She nods absently, the words of the letter still echoing inside her head as loudly and as cleary as if they had been spoken.
"Thank you."
"There is one other thing," Kusakabe-san continues. "The external advisor told me to inform you that rooms for Kakimoto Chikusa and Kojima Ken have been prepared in the main building, on the level below yours. If there is anything else you require, we have received orders from Sawada-san to accommodate all your needs, so please do not hesitate to ask."
Chrome's hands tighten around Lancia-san's parcel as she wonders what to say. Impersonal gratitude seems like the safest bet at the moment. "Thank you for your help. With everything," she adds as an afterthought, standing up.
She is suddenly overcome with an overwhelming urge to be alone, to re-read the letter as many times as necessary to find some sort of clue, anything to make her believe she isn't hoping in vain. She bows her leavetaking and barely stops herself from dashing out of the room.
The sound of her footsteps on polished wood is amplified by the silence in the corridor. Her head is a mess of thoughts and theories tangled together so tightly that if she tried to pull free one of the threads, the net would come undone before she could make sense of any of it. She struggles to banish the fears and worst-case scenarios clogging her brain, to no avail. Once inside her room, the full-length mirror opposite the door reflects her worries back at her. Lancia's letter is clutched tightly in her right hand, all previous concerns about conserving it long since defeated by the increasing anxiety.
Eleven months, going on twelve now -- a whole year with no contact whatsoever from Mukuro-sama. At first, she assumed he was busy with other things (though she didn't know what, she wasn't about to question it); it had certainly happened before. But then the fourth month rolled around, and then the fifth, and the sixth, and no 'other things' had ever kept Mukuro-sama occupied for so long. Her free hand falls to her abdomen instinctively, as if expecting it to cave in on some level of her subconscious. It's an absolutely unjustified concern; the unorgans function as smoothly as ever, almost cruel in their efficiency, as if completely ignorant of the gradual separation from the power that spawned them.
(Lancia's words echo inside her head -- I would be able to refresh the connection between us -- and she closes her eyes tight, trying to contact Mukuro-sama like countless times before, but her thought waves hit a wall and are returned to her, unanswered.)
The box from Lancia contains Panetone, it turns out. Chrome stares at it in confusion, not quite sure what she had expected -- certainly not this -- but after a moment she takes out her pocket knife and cuts a slice. It feels light on her tongue, despite the long journey, and her stomach grumbles appreciatively upon receiving it. Then she divides what's left into three parts: one for the boss, one for Ken and Chikusa, and another for --
Well, just in case.
(Silence. At six-thirty in the evening of the 14th of January, Chrome Dokuro's mind is her own. She fears, not for herself, and puts the brown parcel away.)
✗✗✗
Morning comes much too soon, or perhaps much too late; she's been staring at the ceiling for so long that if not for the bedside clock, she would have completely lost all track of time. To her sleep-deprived mind, the day feels like nothing more than a sunlit continuation of the night that preceded it, equally fraught with useless thoughts and ever-strengthening worries, and so it takes Chrome quite a while to convince herself that it might be good to get out of bed and try for some semblance of productivity, if only to break the monotony a little.
Lancia's letter sits on her desk where she left it an indefinite time ago, and it's only through sheer willpower that Chrome stops herself from opening and rereading it for the umpteenth time, even though the words are already more than etched into her brain. She combs her hair with her fingers in some desperate attempt to make it not look like she just spent the last twelve hours tossing around in bed, which proves to be an exercise in futility, so eventually she gives it up as a bad job and walks out into the corridor, Lancia's parcel tucked safely under one arm.
The boss' room is on the level directly below hers, but it seems to take her an eternity to arrive there, like in one of those dreams in which you walk and walk but never reach the end of the corridor. When she finally does get there, it occurs to her that it might be too early for a visit; if she remembers correctly, the boss had a video conference with the 9th in Italy last night, and he might not be awake yet. She stands in front of the door, hesitating, and eventually decides to take her chances and knock, letting herself in when no reply comes.
A beacon of light pours in from the corridor when she opens the door, bringing out Tsuna's silhouette and drawing her attention to the small frown on his forehead, which makes him look like whatever dream he's having requires his full attention. Smiling to herself, she leaves a piece of panetone on his bedside table, along with a note -- Greetings from Rome -- and lets herself out quietly, careful not to wake him up.
She's on her way to the kitchen for a cup of coffee when she hears her name being called, and turns around. "Good morning, Kusakabe-san," she says amiably. In a remote corner of her mind, some part of her chuckles humorlessly at the oxymoron, but she ignores it and bows her head slightly in greeting.
"Good morning, Dokuro-san," the man replies, jogging to catch up with her. "Are you busy right now?"
"Not really," Chrome admits, resenting the tedium of not having anyone to pass the time with now that Ken and Chikusa aren't talking to her.
Kusakabe-san offers her a cup of coffee in the other building, which she accepts gladly; there's nobody in Namimori base who can refuse a cup of Hibari's imported Italian coffee. It's fortunate that Hibari hasn't yet made the connection between the coffee and the visits; the day he does, it will probably mean goodbye to the coffee, and Chrome thinks that might be one tragedy too many.
"Kyou-san returned from Naples this morning," Kusakabe-san tells her, keeping it vague on purpose. "He wanted to talk to you about something strange he noticed while taking care of some business."
Chrome's curiosity is piqued, but she doesn't prompt him to elaborate. They walk in companionable silence for a little while longer, and when they arrive at their destination she takes a seat at the kotatsu and waits for Hibari to arrive. He's still resting from the flight, she is told, but he should be with her shortly.
"Meanwhile I'll go get that coffee I promised you," Kusakabe-san tells her with a knowing quirk of his lips, and she smiles back gratefully.
The rice-paper door slides shut and, as if on cue, Chrome's mind starts drifting away without asking for her permission. After a couple of minutes, she finds herself examining the room around her. The floor is covered with tatami mats, in keeping with the Japanese-style decoration Hibari seems to favour, and the smell of incense burning floats over to her from the far corner. The warmth of the kotatsu soon spreads to the rest of her body, and she throws a surreptious look around before giving in to the temptation of resting her head on the table. This is nice, she thinks with a contented grin, and little by little she becomes unable to keep her eyes open. At some point she stops trying, and darkness envelops her.
✗✗✗
The night stank of corruption and decay, thought the child Rokudou Mukuro as he stood in the center of the playground. Or maybe the stench of rotting souls was so firmly lodged in his nostrils that he was no longer capable of identifying any other smells, even when he stood outside the research lab.
He directed his gaze heavenward, entranced as always by the only part of his surroundings that wasn't guarded by a chainlink fence. The night sky was vast and inviting, endless by virtue of its deep blue tones that melted into utmost darkness, making it difficult to tell where the sky began and where it ended, if it did at all. Every night without fail, he would wait for the wires and sensors to be disconnected, and the monitors to be switched off; it was then that, taking advantage of the cover dark provided, he would sneak out through the broken window in the basement and lie on the wild grass, gazing up at the stars like some idealist from a long-past age.
He'd been seeing visions inside his head lately. Not dreams; he slept so lightly he never paid enough attention to remember his dreams, always alert on some level of his subconscious for the sounds of the researchers' approaching footsteps. They weren't real dreams, but they resembled dreams in that he could always recognize himself somehow, no matter how different he looked. In these visions, he saw himself crippled by pain, starving but never dying, ignorant, bloodthirsty and murderous, hating like only humans can hate, almost attaining peace but always falling, always going back to repeat the cycle over and over again. Little by little, he started remembering things he had never done, places he had never seen and strength he had never wielded, and he yearned for it to be his own at the same time he felt it as such.
The night sky spread above his head, with no care for the troubles of the living, and he envied it for its freedom, its godlike elegance that could never be bound in a million years, unlike him who was --
Falling, deeper and deeper, where there was no light and no indication that it had ever existed, and then deeper still, plunged into an all-consuming darkness that would have suffocated him if not for the oxygen mask that rested over his nose and mouth, keeping him as close to alive as he needed to be in order to suffer. Strong chains bound his whole body, and he lay cocooned in a corner of his mind, seeking even the slightest crack in the barrier through which he could slip and be free, but there was none; he was drowning in his own claustrophobia every time he breathed in, in, in, but never out --
✗✗✗
-- And then Chrome wakes up, gasping for air like a fish out of water.
"Dokuro-san!"
The voice reverberates inside her head painfully, hitting the walls inside with dizzying intensity. The sudden exposure to light blinds her for a few moments during which she believes she is still trapped --
"Dokuro-san!"
More insistent this time, and then a hand on her shoulder shakes her and pulls her back to reality.
"Kusakabe-san," she says slowly, squinting as her brain works to make sense of the sudden change in her environment. She appears to be in a Japanese-style decorated room, and her feet are unusually warm (kotatsu, her mind prompta helpfully); she must have fallen asleep waiting for Hibari, she realises with a pang of embarrassment. Kusakabe-san's presence seems to at least confirm that theory, which only leaves one thing to worry about. "Mukuro-sama," she breathes out, as the truth of what she has just seen hits her like a blow to the gut.
"What is all this ruckus?"
The rice-paper door slides open, revealing a very aggravated- and jetlagged-looking Hibari; definitely not a good sign, but Chrome is too upset to be intimidated. Fixing them both with a murderous stare, he goes on to ask, "Why can't I get any sleep in my own house?" and then, rounding on Chrome, "I'm never inviting you over again."
"I am terribly sorry, Kyou-san," begins Kusakabe-san, looking a lot like he means it. "Dokuro-san fell asleep while I was making coffee. I think she was having a bad dream, she kept tossing and mumbling in her sleep --"
"It wasn't a dream," Chrome interrupts, sitting up brusquely. Her vision swims from the sudden motion, but she ignores it, just like she ignores Hibari's obvious displeasure; there are more important things to take care of. "Just now, I saw Mukuro-sama. I was Mukuro-sama. I was inside his head."
Hibari regards her for a moment. She notes absently that he has shifted ever so slightly; his eyes have narrowed, taking on a look of downright hostility, and his stance has an air of defensiveness about it, as if the mere mention of Mukuro-sama's name has awakened some sort of primal instinct within him. "You're sure it wasn't a dream," he states rather than asks, taking in the determined expression on her face. "Tetsu, care to bring us something to eat?"
Kusakabe-san nods and gets up; when the door closes after him, Hibari crosses his arms in front of his chest and says, eyes fixed on her and voice taut with tension, "Tell me everything you saw."
So she does.
She tells him everything: about the letter, about the dream, about her inability to reach Mukuro-sama. Hibari listens intently through it all, only glancing away when Kusakabe walks back in, and even then only for a few seconds. A muscle along his jaw tenses as she tells the story, but whatever he's thinking he doesn't say, presumably preferring to wait until the end.
When Chrome finishes, he holds his silence for a moment longer. Then he looks her in the eye and asks, "What are you going to do?"
Chrome takes a sip of her coffee and nods absently. "I think something bad has happened, for the link to have weakened like this," she begins, thinking of the best way to phrase it. "I'm going to help him."
"His name is not on the 'deceased' list of the prison," Hibari challenges, watching her closely. "For all you know, he might just have moved on to someone else's mind."
Chrome takes a deep steadying breath, and holds his gaze. "Even so, I'm not going to sit around doing nothing when there is the slightest possibility that he could be in trouble," she says, and knows it to be the truth.
She thinks she sees the flicker of a smile on Hibari's face, but then he gets up to open a nearby chest, and her view is obscured. He stares at its contents for a few moments, and then returns with what looks like a cloud-attribute box. Chrome glances at Kusakabe-san, who looks just as bemused as she feels; the trepidation is thick in the air as one of the rings on Hibari's right hand is ignited and inserted into the box.
There is a brief flash of purple light, and then Hibari pulls out a yellowing scroll in the way of a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat and spreads it flat on the surface of the kotatsu. "This," he says to his enthralled audience, "is a map of Vendicare prison."
Unable to believe her ears, Chrome chooses to believe her eyes; she lets her gaze fall to the yellowish paper, examining every detail with something akin to reverence, trying to find something that will contradict Hibari's words, but there is nothing. She leans in as close as she dares to scrutiny it properly, and even with the evidence in front of her eyes she can't quite swallow her disbelief.
"This is impossible," Chrome muses out loud, trying to reason with herself through her awe. "All plans of Vendicare prison were supposed to have been destroyed. Even the guards aren't allowed to have a copy on paper of this plan."
"So I've heard," Hibari replies, humoring her. Then, seeing her gaze remains glued to the map (and likely to stay like that for a while), he gets up and uses his hand to cover a yawn. "I'm leaving that map there. You can stay up all night thinking of a hundred reasons why that plan is a fake if you so wish, but I'm going to take a nap."
Padded footsteps. A smooth sliding sound; the door being opened.
"Why?" Chrome manages at last, pulling her eyes away from the parchment with great effort. You're supposed to hate him, she wants to say. You're supposed to want him dead.
He stops in the threshold, just before walking out, not turning, and there's something primal about him when he says, "Because I'll be the one to kill him in the end. And you just need to make sure he doesn't die until then."
Chrome isn't sure what one is supposed to say in such a situation, so she voices the first thought that runs through her mind. "Thank you, Hibari-san."
Hibari does turn around this time, a vaguely amused glance thrown over his shoulder as he walks out into the corridor. "You're a strange woman," he tells her, and slides the door shut.
✗✗✗
When Chrome finishes examining the map (which takes a long time; every time she makes a move to put it away she feels the urge to look at it again to make sure it hasn't all been a product of her imagination), it is already late afternoon. Kusakabe-san volunteers to bring her lunch several times, but she declines, not feeling hungry in the slightest, although she does accept his offer of a flask of coffee to take with her (one for the road, he says with a smile, and she chuckles). Then she bows and leaves, the map safely locked in a storage box of her own and her heart beating madly inside her chest.
Chrome walks down the corridor as stealthily as she can, which is to say she barely makes a sound; stealth is a skill Nagi had needed to cultivate for various reasons, and one Chrome finds to be particularly useful if one is to pursue a career as a professional assassin. She also has a good memory, which enables her to remember which floorboards creak so she can avoid them; again, a skill from a different life which is unlikely to ever become obsolete.
There's someone else in the corridor with her. She feels his presence before she sees him, and stops in her tracks to wait.
"Chrome?" he calls, tentatively, approaching her. As he does so, he steps on the loose floorboard just outside Hibari's room, and Chrome has to do a really big effort not to break into a fit of giggles at the look on his face when said floorboard creaks loud enough to wake up all of Namimori.
"Boss," Chrome greets him, doing her best to keep her tone of voice neutral. "Did you sleep well?"
"Ah, yes. Actually, I wanted to thank you for the cake, and I was told you might be here, so I thought I'd drop by," Tsuna replies, scratching the back of his head and throwing nervous glances in the direction of Hibari's room. "Do you reckon I woke him up?"
Chrome stifles a laugh. "I think we'd have found out by now if that were the case," she reasons, then adds out of curiosity, "How did you know it was me who left the cake there?"
There's a hint of amusement in Tsuna's eyes as he says, "Hyper Intuition." When Chrome blinks at him with something like awe, he laughs and says, "No, actually, it's just that out of all the people currently living in Namimori Base, you're the only one whose handwriting I can understand. There's a reason all reports have to be typed, you know," he jokes.
Chrome puts a hand over her mouth to clamp down on the giggles. "Hibari-san is going to be mad if we wake him up," she says, but she can't bring herself to stop laughing.
"That would be painful," Tsuna agrees, and for a few moments they just stand there, unable to stop chuckling despite the imminent threat of being bitten to death for it. Then out of the blue, Tsuna says, "Are you leaving?"
Chrome sobers immediately at the unexpected question. "Yes," she says. There's no point in lying to the Boss, and at any rate, she finds she doesn't want to. Even though she could write her trip off as a much-needed vacation, and disappear without a trace, Chrome feels she owes him at least this much.
Tsuna is silent for a moment, maybe taking it all in, and then smiles and says, "Okay."
Just like that; the simplicity of his acceptance is a thing of wonder.
"You're not going to ask any questions?" Chrome asks in a small voice.
The Boss shrugs, and leans agains the wall almost thoughtfully. "Not really," he replies with a short laugh. "I trust you. Isn't that what Family's for?" he muses, looking her in the eye.
That's when it happens: one of those random deep moments that creep up on you suddenly and make every word echo for long moments after being said, and it almost feels like the atmosphere itself is holding its breath, waiting for some sort of turning point to happen and change everything. And things are going to change, Chrome has decided; this time, she's going to be the one to hold out her hand.
That's right, Chrome thinks with a smile. That's what Family's for.
"I'll definitely be back," she says out loud, and means it like a promise -- to the Boss, to Mukuro-sama, and to herself. There are other things she could say, sentences she has unconsciously rehearsed in the back of her mind in preparation for a moment like this, but they do not belong to this time or place. "With Mukuro-sama."
Right now, her truth is the biggest tribute she can offer.
"I guess you will," Tsuna agrees with a nervous laugh at the name. There isn't much light in the corridor, but Chrome can tell he's smiling. She can see him, not with her eyes, but with her mind; in the end, aren't both the same thing?
For a few moments, she stands there and believes it's time for goodbye. Or perhaps not, not just yet.
"See you later, Boss," Chrome tells him in purposefully-accented Japanese, and leans forward to plant a kiss on his cheek just like all those years ago, and adds, "now that Gokudera-san isn't here to shout at me."
Tsuna laughs at that. "It'll be our little secret. Take care," he says, nodding to her as if to tell her, go on.
So she smiles, nods back at him, and starts running.
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"What do you want, woman?" Ken grunts when she opens the door and bursts in. "We already told you, we're not joining forces with that --"
"Ken, Chikusa," she calls, ignoring the diatribe and extending her staff. Her heart is beating impossibly loudly; she's amazed they can't hear it. "Grab your things; we're going to save Mukuro-sama."
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[ Sometimes, a saving hand is all it takes. ]