Angel in Disguise

Omi shot to his feet, trying to see through the inky darkness. He pounded on the wall he'd fallen through. "HEY! Open up!" It didn't budge. "Shit," he swore quietly. Farfarello hadn't been the greatest company - Yes he was, I miss him already - but it was better than being stuck in this hellish factory alone.

A snuffling from behind him made him realize that he wasn't alone. "...Farfarello?" he asked quietly, reaching into his pocket for the flashlight.

Nothing in the left corner. He swung the beam of light towards the right. A large shape came into focus. He heard a muted clopping sound as the creature stepped forward, focusing on the light. Behind it, he could see an exit. Of course, he thought irritatedly. As the thing moved, he could make out the arch of a neck, and a long back.

A horse.

It seemed to see him behind the light finally, and lowered its head. He followed it with the light, not wanting to be caught unprepared and realized that its hooves weren't regular horses hooves; they were cloven, like a goats. It threw its head back, and made a sound like a roar, exposing knife-like fangs before it bolted, charging straight for him.

Omi flung one of the tranq darts Farfarello had given him, and didn't stop to see if it had hit its mark, instead dashing to the left and forward, tumbling through the small door and another swinging wall out into a brightly lit room. The wall/door closed with a definite latch behind him, and he heard another muted roar. "I hate this place," he whined quietly to the floor. "I wanna go home."

He looked up at a shallow noise from beside him, and saw Farfarello. Relief flooded him.

Farfarello pulled inside himself, as usual when he was locked up. There was nothing to do, so he should at least conserve resources. Slower heart beat, slower digestive system, slower breathing.

On the other side of the wall, something made an unholy sort of noise... some kind of dark shriek.

The wall... opened... and Omi came spilling out.

Farfarello leapt to his feet, but his body was in hibernation mode, and he had to lean against the wall for support.

The boy mumbled something low, but the Irishman's skin was burning. Already, a chance.

The kid saw him, eyes growing wide with an emotion Farfarello couldn't comprehend at the moment, and didn't try.

As he felt his vitals returning, he lunged forward, pulling the kid up against the wall and pressing his hungry knife against the Weiss's throat.

"Didn't work out quite like you'd hoped, hn?" he growled, left hand fisted tightly to keep the boy from slipping through his baggy sweater.

Betrayed at the last, Omi thought, almost relieved that Farfarello had finally reverted to form. He refused to acknowledge the hurt that came along with the slight sting of the blade against his throat.

"I don't-" he breathed, and then swallowed past the lump of solid fear that had lodged in his throat. "I don't know what you're talking about." Fierce. Beautiful. It was not possible to fall in love with someone so quickly, he assured himself, and then reminded himself that it wasn't going to matter in a moment, because he'd been caught off guard twice - first by the wall, and then by Farfarello himself.

I don't want to die here.

Already, one hand was sliding one of the knives out of its holster in his sleeve - it briefly occurred to him to wonder how many weapons Farfarello routinely brought with him, and compare the two numbers, and then he reminded himself that he wasn't friends with the Irishman any more - if 'friends' could describe the loose sort of camaraderie they'd been operating with since entering the building.

He was pinned securely, so his analytical mind automatically decided that the best place to aim for was at the back, through the kidneys, but before he had a chance to move, the wall swung open again - this time revealing a furious demonic horse. "That thing's back!" he whispered, drawing closer to the wall.
*

Two birds with one stone. That was his first thought. Throw Omi at the beast.

But no, he realized, he wanted to shred the boy himself. Revel in each slice. Wrench out each cry with his own blade.

If the Weiss died here, he'd never get that chance. He released his fist-full of sweater, letting the assassin slide to the floor, and swiveled, pushing his back up against the boy. His to kill. He wasn't letting some demonic steed tear away what was rightfully or wrongfully his.

Without another thought, because he didn't really care to think about it, he launched himself at the equine. It was only slightly faster than he'd anticipated, lashing out with its sharp hooves when he'd expected teeth, and catching him across the left shoulder, sending him straight onto his back. Stupid, but he was already grinning with the thrill of the fight. He slipped his knife through the air, catching the beast across the shin as it retracted its limb. The creature shrieked, rearing, one of its feet rendered practically useless, but it had three more and wasn't even close to giving up on its prey.

His shoulder felt warm, and he knew without looking that it was bleeding, but such was the fight. Not usually so early on in the fight. He'd been distracted. Another reason to kill the boy.

After trying vainly to push himself up with the bleeding appendage, he realized it was a bit more damaged than he'd thought. Instead, he rolled himself to the side, dodging another hoof kick, and leapt to his feet underneath the creature, his blade sinking hilt-deep into the beast's chest. A lung blow on any normal creature, but he wasn't even sure if the organs on these creations were in the correct place.

And now the teeth and back feet started.

Far too many weapons for one creature.

*

Omi took a few moments to steady his frantically beating heart, and then stood again. Here was his chance; clearly Farfarello thought he'd been abandoned, so now he could let the Irishman deal with that manic horse, and escape himself. It would be the safest thing to do.

Safety took a back seat to an abrupt sense of honour, though. However briefly, they'd been something like comrades. And if that was Ken, fighting that horse, Omi wouldn't have thought twice about helping. He withdrew the blade Farfarello had given him, and with one knife in each hand, he threw himself into the fray.

Finally, an eager voice in the back of his mind said. A chance. No being restrained for the sake of the others. Total freedom.

He shrugged out of his sweater and jacket, leaving them in a pile on the floor, and ducked under the horse, slashing out with the knife from Farfarello. It slid easily through the skin and muscle, and he found himself drenched in blood. Some unholy force kept the beast together, however, and he immediately swung out of range of the feet, aware of Farfarello to his left doing his own battle with the front. Another swing of the knife severed the muscles in it's hind leg, nearly crippling it. The other hoof came out and caught him in the midsection, the dagger-like edge slicing straight through his shirt and nearly returning the favour of gutting him. He sprang backwards with scant centimeters to spare, and then came back around swinging, slicing through the muscles on the other leg, and bringing it down.

He realized almost too late that that was where Farfarello had ended up, and he shoved with all his weight against the falling beast to prevent him from being crushed under its weight. Beyond reasoning with himself, it never occurred to him that he'd just saved the life of the man trying to kill him - a man who'd never shown himself to have anything resembling honour.

Farfarello's mind jerked as he noticed the warm body fighting alongside him.

Alongside.

He'd never used that term before. Schwarz fought together, yet separately, each moving with their own flow. If they got in one another's way, someone would probably die.

So stunned, he didn't notice the beast coming down until... well... until it was down. Perhaps he would've noticed sooner, his body cracking under the beast's, if the boy hadn't pushed it aside.

It writhed on the floor in pain now, still trying desperately to get up and destroy them. Hungry beast. Hungry for blood and death. Farfarello could relate.

He stared now, his fire somewhat quenched, although his heart still throbbed with blood lust. He wanted to shred something living. Tear it apart. He felt the beast's last breath wrenched away as his sunken dagger stole its air. That only left two, counting himself.

His fingers found the boy's throat before he'd even realized he was moving, knees planted on the ground at either side of the Weiss's torso. Knife was inside the beast. More knives in his clothes and flesh, but his mind was static. Where had he hidden them?

Squeezing was enough, he reasoned, but his fingers wouldn't tighten. He blamed it on the slippery goo that coated the flesh beneath his hands.

"You left, then didn't leave," he rasped. What did that even mean? Did it cancel out? "I don't understand."

But it didn't matter. Kill, kill. He wanted blood. He felt lightheaded. The wound from his shoulder dripped, dripped down onto the boy's shirt, and there was enough blood down there for everyone. Lightheaded. Blood loss. That's why his fingers wouldn't tighten.

That made sense, right?

He didn't believe it, though.

*

The attack came so swiftly on the edges of the battle with the horse that Omi had his knife at Farfarello's throat before he realized that the Irishman was still something of an ally. Still, it was several more moments before he realized he was being spoken to.

"The wall," he gasped out, and felt fingers scrabbling for purchase against his throat. "I stopped to wait for you." He grabbed at the wrist holding him down, but he was so slippery with blood that he couldn't find purchase against the equally wet flesh. "It opened; I fell."

Blood was dripping into his mouth with each word, and he turned his head to spit it out. He was almost surprised to find his free hand still holding Farfarello's own knife to the other man's neck when he straightened, and he lowered it to the floor, not daring to relinquish his grip. Now his other hand moved to Farfarello's chest, and he pushed. "Get off of me," he said, and realized that there was pain beginning to filter in through the haze. Vaguely, he wondered if this was what Farfarello felt like all the time. Mind clouded with red, not even pain got through, much less coherent thought. No wonder the man was insane.

This was why he needed Weiss. They kept this insanity at bay. Would it be so bad? he wondered in the back of his mind. To let loose like that had been liberating. He would have happily segued into an equally bloody fight with the Irishman, but something was stopping him, letting rational thought back in. His hand was throbbing, his stomach hurt, and he just wanted to be free of this building and all it's nightmares.

That was a stupid excuse. Surely the boy was a better liar than that. He could have said he'd been pulled through a door, or that he hadn't realized Farfarello was behind him instead of in front.

Stupid, stupid excuse.

So stupid, it was believable. The walls had openings, that was certain. He'd watched Omi tumble out of one.

He struggled with the decision, deeply desiring the feel of the boy's insides running across his palms. But also, deeply desiring the boy's... infectious self. In the past few moments, he'd almost become... happy. Not in a mind-bending way, but in a sort of... pleased contentment, if there was such a thing.

When the Weiss had left, he wasn't so much angry at being deprived of his ticket out as he was frustrated at the lack of the kid himself. That, and the betrayal. The betrayal stung. Not that he'd actually been betrayed. They weren't even comrades.

And the boy sounded sincere about that damned wall.

As his killing urge receded back to a low murmur, he found himself mentally exhausted. Emotions were such a ridiculous invention. He wished he could sever them.

"Please," he said lowly, lowering himself to sit across the kid's abdomen, fingers sliding down onto the cold floor to keep himself upright. "I didn't hear one."

"Please," Omi gasped out as Farfarello's weight shifted onto his midsection. "Please get off of me?" he tried again when he'd gotten his breath back. The blood was already starting to dry on his clothes and skin, and he was starting to feel disgusting under all the muck. The Irishman's suddenly physical presence on top of him wasn't helping matters, though he wasn't entirely sure what those matters were. "Please?" he asked again, when the older teen didn't immediately shift off of him.

In his mind, now free of the killing fog, he was returning to the map of the building. To the left was the way out. To the right was an employee lounge. It was a momentarily distraction decision, until he realized that Farfarello had been wounded. That, more than anything else, decided him. The lounge would have a locker room, where he could find a change of clothes, and more than likely a better equipped medical kit to bandage the two of them up.

He's not Ken, he reminded himself. But it didn't stop him from (not)worrying about the Irishman's arm.

Farfarello saw and heard the please. It even sounded genuine. But he couldn't make himself rise.

Not as in 'he couldn't convince himself.'

He simply couldn't get the muscles to respond.

The first breathy please was debilitating. Farfarello stared down at the boy, who had turned into yet another creature. Despite the knife, which he'd only realized when the boy lowered it, he looked very fragile.

The Irishman felt heat flood his face, and he backed off awkwardly at the third plea, his skin feeling too tight around his bones.

The boy was too genuine, like a child. But he wasn't a child, and he wasn't always sweet or innocent or anything of that sort. Like a child raised by wolves.

And now he felt himself staring, watching the boy climb to his feet, enjoying the way those muscles worked, and wondering if he'd ever be allowed to pull them apart. Wondering if he should ever be given the right to do such, because they way they looked now was perfect, and he'd never be able to put them back together again.

And he wanted them together.

He felt a shimmer run through his body that felt something like the adrenaline from before, but... not quite. Alien. Probably just residue from the fight, or the blood leaking from his shoulder, or the way Bombay's eyes were just too big. It was overwhelming.

He looked away, picking at his clothes absent-mindedly.

Omi stretched again, wincing slightly at the sting on his abdomen. He had no idea what was going on behind that opaque yellow eye, and it bothered him. Weiss were as easy to read as books; he could tell at a glance from fifty paces what any one of them was thinking, and the fact that he couldn't even begin to guess at Farfarello's thoughts made him nervous.

"I want to go this way right now," he said, gesturing. He could have said, We're going this way, or lied and told him, I think this is the way out. He couldn't have explained his choice of words to himself, much less to anyone else. He didn't wait for the Irishman, however; he simply gathered his discarded jackets and plugged the computer into the keypad of the door he wanted without comment. Either he'd follow, or not.

When the door opened, he glanced around immediately for any signs of life. But the room was still as death, and silent, so he continued on, knowing that Farfarello would either follow or not.

The first thing he did upon finding the locker room/employee lounge was hunt down the first aid kit he was sure would be in there. No facility that did the kinds of things these people did would be without one. After a few seconds of searching, he found it, and opened it to make sure it was well stocked.

It was. Relieved, he dug through the lockers, and retrieved some clean clothes. He felt a little bit awkward about wearing a probably-dead man's clothing, but it was better than the blood-soaked things he had on now. Setting them aside, he stripped off his shirt, followed by his shoes and shorts, leaving them in a bloody trail towards the showers. Unwilling to disrobe entirely, he stepped under the water in his boxer shorts, one hand still holding a knife for defense. He lifted his face into the spray, feeling it wash away the dirt and other unpleasant things. It wasn't the first time he'd taken the time to shower after a mission before leaving the building. It always freaked Aya and the others out for some reason, but he absolutely could not stand running around with blood on him. It bothered him enough already that the horses' blood had gotten into his wounds; who knew what sorts of pathogens it contained. He watched the pinkish water swirl down the drain, and wondered what Farfarello was doing.

Farfarello was watching him. After Omi had disappeared into the next room, his muscles suddenly found new life, and he'd quickly scrambled to his feet, although not entered, content to lean against the door frame and stare at the boy's back as he rummaged through the office.

But when he took off his shirt, Farfarello was dumbfounded. Shoes. Shorts. The psychopath's eyes drifted down, watching him walk away to disappear through another door.

His feet moved of their own accord, his eyes drifting across the forgotten clothes, until he got the second door frame.

Schuldig said showers were special in a way Farfarello couldn't understand. The Irishman, for his part, had agreed. Showers were to get clean or to burn your skin off.

Bombay was doing the former, he suspected, although he had trouble thinking of a logical reason why the assassin would be doing such a thing at this point.

The water slid across the feline's form in waves, making him look like he was moving, even though he stood stalk still. His hair had turned dark brown under the weight of the water, and was plastered to the back of his neck.

He didn't look like Omi.

And Farfarello had forgotten how to breathe.

The water at his feet swirled in pink waves, but he was much more interested in the water playing across the boy's back. The sound of the water masked his footsteps, which even without the water were deathly silent. He felt the water soak his clothes, but that mattered far less than what he wanted.

And what did he want, exactly?

Just this. He dragged his fingers upward lazily along Bombay's back, enjoying the shapes the parted water created. Slicing his flesh without knives.

The knife clattered to the floor at the unexpected caress. Omi froze, knowing it was Farfarello behind him, but unable to fathom why he'd touched.

He turned, drawing away slightly. "... Farfarello?"

It was, he realized, the first time he'd ever addressed the man by name. Looking up at him in the artificial light, water sluicing down his face and clothes, dampening his hair and the light shining behind him like a halo, Omi had the strangest desire to kiss him.

Some part of his brain that wasn't overcome by madness told him that this would be a bad idea, that a good idea would be to get out, dry off, get dressed, and leave.

Torn between the two actions, he did neither, and simply settled for staring, wide-eyed.

At the sound of his name, Farfarello's eyes rose to the boy's face. The water stumbled over the different shapes found there, getting caught in the boy's eyebrows, and gushing down across his nose to bubble at his lips and chin.

He raised his hand to softly slice at the water there, enthralled by the lack of power each cut required. His fingertips followed the slope of the boy's forehead, across the bridge of his nose, outwards across his cheek, around to his jawline. A softly curving jawline. The water glided easily across it, unperturbed by the inward slope to his neck. Occasional droplets dove forward too fast, sluicing off to the side, too heavy to still belong with their shower-head comrades. His fingertips disturbed the flow, pulling otherwise-sane droplets off to their deaths.

His eyes were pulled by an inconsistency. A patch half-shielded by the boy's ear and hair, which was still a foggy pink. The last remains of blood had gathered into a single droplet, and was hanging there, ready to begin its downward descent.

Wasteful.

He leaned forward, dragging his tongue up along the pale flesh to catch the fat droplet, the watered-down metallic sweetness ringing against his drunken senses.

If he didn't know any better, Omi would have said this was a calculated attempt at seduction. He'd seen Yohji do this countless times with countless girls, but who could know what was going through the Irishman's head?

Then, the tongue...

Omi made a strangled noise in this throat as the softly warm sensation against one of the most sensitive parts of his body shot through him. It tingled, he realized, and he drew back, leaning against the wall for support. He was afraid he'd fall forward into the other man or straight down onto his feet if he didn't. Dozens of thoughts clamored behind his eyes, all railing at him to speak one of them, but when he opened his mouth, nothing came out.

Finally, something sunk through his fogged mind, and he fled. He recovered a towel he'd seen earlier, and dried off as quickly as he could, before throwing on the clothes he'd dug out; just a simple set of scrubs and some socks. He dressed as he ran, back out into the hall with the carcass of the horse. For just a moment, he was overcome by the weirdness of wearing full length trousers on a mission, but then his brain caught up with his mad flight, and he sank to the floor, one hand over his mouth.

What had prompted that moment of insanity? And why didn't he object?

Object? His mind inquired. We don't object. We want him to do it again. He put his head in his arms, resting on his knees, and tried to calm his wildly beating heart. This was no horrifying creature to be killed and forgotten - the memory of Farfarello's intent look, soft touches, and the tongue... - they would never go away.

*

Farfarello growled his frustration as the boy took off, depriving him of his entertainment. Showers. He liked showers now. Cutting without cutting. He could pull a person apart without ever breaching their skin.

He looked down, taking in his own soggy clothes. It was warm here, but the hallways were cold. Hypothermia. And the wound on his shoulder. He should probably do something about that, too. Lowly humming an old Irish tune, he pulled off his shirt, allowing it to hang loosely from his fist, letting the warm water stream across his shoulder wound.

When it felt sufficiently clean, and he was able to make a tight fist with his left hand, he walked silently out of the showers, leaving the water streaming full blast from the head.

Squeezing his shirt dry, he looked around, and shivered, hit full blast by the icy contrast of the office. It wasn't uncomfortable, just unpleasant.

After a few minutes, Omi had pulled himself together enough to retrieve his jackets, and make sure all of his gadgets had a decent home in his new clothes. For a brief moment, he wondered how he was ever going to face Farfarello again, and then shoved it to the side. Nothing had happened. He was just going to pretend that the Irishman hadn't just licked him.

Belatedly, it occurred to him that Farfarello was now dripping wet, and would probably want or need more clothes himself. He returned to the lounge area, looking around.

Try as he might, the Irishman couldn't get the residual moisture off his shirt. Goosebumps were now bursting up across his skin.

A heap of fabric on the floor caught his attention. Omi had left it there. That meant he didn't want or need it anymore.

Hn.

He pulled the shirt over his head, enjoying the scent of Omi and caked-on blood. And it was definitely warm enough. Now, pants.

...Shorts were out of the question. He pulled off his drawers, plopping himself down on the floor to squeeze them dry. His boxers were only slightly less soggy, but they'd retained some warmth, in being so close to his body, so he didn't bother wringing them out.

*

Omi didn't immediately see his companion, and knew that if anything was amiss, the man was capable of handling it himself. Taking advantage, he re-dressed his wounds, and went in search of the other man.

Inside the other room, just past the lockers, he could hear that the shower was still running. He wasn't worried about it, however; his attention was arrested by the Irishman, who was currently wearing his shirt and no trousers.

What did one say to that?

'Excuse me, that shirt is caked in blood?' Farfarello probably liked that. 'That's still mine?' No, he'd dropped it, fully intending to leave it behind entirely.

"Why are you wearing that?" he settled on finally.

He heard the boy approach, not even bothering to look. It was nice working with someone you weren't worried might stab you in the back.

"It's warm and dry, and smells good," he said honestly, crunching his pants into a ball. Water gushed out onto the floor, soaking the carpet.

Farfarello looked over his shoulder now, taking in the boy's appearance. New clothes that didn't quite fit.

"You can fight in those?" he asked, pulling on his still-damp pants with moderate difficulty. His skin rebelled against the contact, but he ignored it.

Omi looked down at himself. The shirt wasn't restricting; its excess fabric was caught and held by his jacket. The pants were a little loose, but he hadn't considered fighting in them. He tightened the drawstring on the inside, and then rolled up the waist band, so they didn't trail on the floor. His shoes, luckily, were waterproof - and therefore blood-proof - and all he needed to do was wash off the excess blood from the outside and slip them on.

"Now I can," he said confidently. His neck still tingled pleasantly, but he ignored it, telling himself it was just a one-time moment of insanity on Farfarello's part. That was to be expected of a supposed madman.

"How's your shoulder?" he asked conversationally. The weirdness of the subject didn't occur to him.

Farfarello watched him fool around with the clothes, making them less hazardous. Crawford got all their clothes custom-fitted. He'd gotten fairly used to that. The boy's t-shirt fit comfortably, though. His pants would be the biggest concern. They would be highly restricting until they dried. They would dry faster if he moved around, but moving around meant they'd probably run into something that required movement.

The boy's question almost went unnoticed, but his mind absorbed it nonetheless, playing it back to him until he could gather its meaning.

His shoulder. How... was it? That didn't make sense. It simply was. He vaguely remembered being asked a similar question a long time ago, but he couldn't recollect the correct answer. It had stopped bleeding. It would heal. Those answers seemed obvious, though.

Grinning, he decided on, "It doesn't hurt."

Good enough, Omi decided. "The way out is..." he scrunched up his eyes, thinking. "Back out past the horse, and then mostly down. Should we go now, or is there anything you need to do?"

Like lick me aga- He cut that train of thought off before it could be completed. Besides, he didn't want to be licked, he wanted to be kis-

Dangerous territory, that. Odd how one event - this one mission - could change his entire perception of the Irishman. He looked frightfully disarming in Omi's bloodstained mission shirt and damp trousers. He flexed the fingers in his left hand, feeling the already-healing skin pull slightly, but at least it didn't start bleeding again. He leaned into the stall, past the still-streaming water, and retrieved the knife. It was, after all, the one Farfarello had given him. It was almost identical to his others, except for the sheen on it's blade that told him it had been well taken-care-of before it passed to him. He added a knife sharpening set to his mental shopping list of things to pick up after this mission.

And several days sleep. He was only just now realizing it, but it was well into the early hours of the morning, and he was beginning to get tired after so much physical exertion. He yawned against his will, brought on by thoughts of sleeping.

Farfarello wet his lips absent-mindedly, thinking.

Get back in the shower, but that wasn't an option. Neither was pulling open the boy's wound to lap at the blood there. The Weiss could feel pain. He wouldn't appreciate such an intrusion, and for some reason, the Irishman cared that Bombay wouldn't appreciate it.

He wanted him smiling.

Or yawning. Yawning was fine, too.

Farfarello could go days without sleep, not realizing his body was crying out for it, but he was well aware that his psyche was an anomaly. Other people needed rest.

"No, let's go," he responded, climbing to his feet.

As if in response to his thoughts, Omi shot him a bright smile, excited to be on his way. He felt into the hidden seam of his jacket for the stimulants he kept there, and then decided against it. He was still awake enough to get himself and Farfarello out of the building, and if he took one this late, he'd never get to sleep until noon the next day.

"Out this way, through the door, to the left, then there should be stairs," Omi muttered to himself, focused on his feet. Something wasn't right about the large room, but he couldn't figure it out at first. He scanned it, looking for the anomaly.

The horse is gone.

He stopped dead, staring at the pool of blood where the enormous carcass had just been laying not five minutes prior. Sharpening his senses from long habit, he listened. The shower running. Farfarello's near-silent footfalls. A faint sliding sound, as though something heavy being dragged along the floor.

Instantly alert as adrenaline flooded him, he inched nearer to the blood, Farfarello's knife securely in his right hand. He slipped the second tranquilizer dart out of his sleeve, readying it in his left hand. The blood trail lead into the small room he'd fallen into, the wall-door slightly apart from the rest of it's moorings. He kicked it shut, and replaced the blade in his hand with one of his own before wedging it into the wood across the crack, somewhat locking the door. At least this time they'd hear it if the knife fell when the door was pushed open, and know to get away. Oddly relieved, he motioned for Farfarello to follow him through the far door, the one he'd avoided taking in order to clean himself off.

Farfarello felt the corners of his mouth twitch at the boy's smile, his body feeling warm, despite the coolness that pricked his skin. Now, if only the boy could smile and kill at the same time... he shivered happily. He finally managed to look away, looting his forgotten, soggy shirt for all the knives hidden in the pockets and seams.

After finding decent places for everything, and keeping the tranquilizer gun hanging gently in his palm, he followed the boy out, feeling full of a warmth that quickly left when he noticed what the boy was staring at.

He watched the boy work, enjoying the intelligence of his actions. A wasted knife, but that was of little consequence.

The Irishman nodded, following silently where the boy motioned. It was interesting, how easily he trusted the boy now. Not even a hair raised in question to his motives, whether he was leading them into a trap. He wondered briefly when he'd gotten so comfortable, and couldn't pin it on any one moment.