_Geez_, what a stunt.

We slam into the carpet and I kick the katana aside, just before Aya plants a fist in my face. The following struggle gets far too much of his blood on my shirt before I can pin his arm.

"You know," I say conversationally, twisting it up behind him in a way that promises serious pain if he resists further, "most people just _ask_ for help."

Aya growls over his shoulder at me. His face is white with anger and his hair is disheveled, something that rarely happens even on missions. But then it's not often anyone gets the upper hand over him, is it?

"Get out."

"No."

"This is none of your business."

I turn his arm a little and he gasps. "You injure your sword arm and it's none of my business? We need to patch this." The gash doesn't seem to have hit anything major, naturally; I press in on it firmly with my free hand. "And you better hope we don't have a mission tomorrow."

Aya hisses through his teeth at the pain. For a moment he relaxes, and I almost loosen my grip; only the sudden baleful glint in those violet eyes warns me in time. Years of sparring on the practice mat mean we know each other's cues far too well.

Shit, this needs to be stitched fast and he's still throwing his tantrum. I decide to use shock tactics. "Aya, do you seriously expect me to believe you were trying to kill yourself just now?"

He goes very, very still.

"You know ten ways to die in seconds before anyone could stop you. Hell, I can't stop you if you want to be a little slow on the next mission. It would just look like an accident. But not making the others deal with it. Not this slow dramatic performance for me to find. Come _on_."

If looks could kill... "You weren't supposed to be here," he finally spits out.

"Bullshit. You knew I'd come up to talk and you left the door unlocked."

The strangest expression crosses Aya's face. "I did lock the door," he murmurs, half to himself. "Didn't I?" Abruptly his muscles go limp for the second time.

This time it doesn't feel like a ploy. Just in case I watch his eyes for a few seconds, but whatever they're looking at isn't in the room. Cautiously, I release his arm...no reaction. Nor does he resist when I slide a hand under his shoulder and coax him to his feet. While I get a makeshift tourniquet and bandages in place and go for the first aid kit he sits listlessly on the bed.

Fortunately we've all gotten rather good at making and taking stitches. Omi is best at it, very neat-handed, but I do a fair job. Aya accepts one shot of whiskey and watches with his brows drawn tightly together. I almost expect him to critique my sewing.

The really good anaesthetic stuff from Kritiker, antiseptics and bandages, and it's done at last. Just one more scar for the collection on his pale skin, one more lie to tell the ladies if he had any. I shut the kit and lean forward before Aya can tell me to leave. "Now. What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Get out."

"_Aya_."

He turns away to lie down on his side, stretching out his injured arm on the bed. With his legs drawn up like that and his fists clenched he looks like a child shutting the world out. Sighing, I flop back onto the bed next to him and stare at the ceiling.

This had better sound good. Why couldn't the man have just drunk the beer?

"Give me some credit for knowing about pain here, okay?" I start again gently. "You're an odd guy but I trust you. You'd never leave us when we need you. You'd never leave your sister in danger."

Wouldn't it be nice if I were as confident as I sounded?

"You don't really want to die, Aya. You want the pain to go away."

There's a small noise from his side of the bed, maybe a sigh, maybe a grunt. Assent.

"So _tell_ me. Have I let you down tonight?"

Silence. I bite my tongue, count ceiling tiles, remind myself that a watched Aya never boils. Finally he whispers something.

"Schwarz."

I wait for more.

"The German one...the telepath."

My least favorite. I remember that nasal laugh on the phone telling me Omi was a traitor, the way he tried to make us fight each other. And he's too goddamned fast; every time I've gotten close in a fight he dances away and smirks. It's like we're just toys to him. "Yeah?"

"He keeps talking to me."

_Shit_. I look over, wide-eyed, at Aya's uninformative back. "Did he tell you to -"

He ignores me, talking in a rush as if to get it all out. "Visiting my dreams. Every night. ...It's getting worse, Youji."

"How long has this been going on?" I whisper.

Aya actually laughs, a small bitter sound. "Years." He hesitates. "For a long time there was nothing. But it started again about a month ago."

Thinking about the flame-haired Schwarz inside anyone's mind for that long makes my skin crawl. And...oh no. No way. "Does this have anything to do with earlier tonight?"

Another long pause. "Yes."

I want to throw up. Rolling over and grabbing the edge of the bed, I wait for the drinks from tonight to fight their way back up; when they don't it seems almost unfair. Something like this deserves more of a reaction.

God _damn_ it. "We'll kill him," is all I can think of to say, lamely.

Silence from Aya. I'm sure he's thought of that idea already. What can _I_ do? My experience with telepathy attacks is limited to Omi's description and kids' television; it'd be nice if the magical power of friendship melded our minds and let us kick the bastard's ass, but somehow it seems unlikely.

About all I'm good for here is talking. So say something useful, Youji. You're the expert in this area, right? I clear my throat.

"So...you decided to find a girl and distract yourself. Seems like a good idea. What went wrong?"

Silence from Aya. All I can hear is the light noise of his breathing.

Okay, _dumb_ question. He couldn't touch her and he probably couldn't get it up, and what kind of thing is that to make a guy admit? Nevertheless Meya's reaction sticks in my mind. "Like someone was holding a gun to his head," she'd said.

Ugh. What is the least embarrassing way to phrase this? "Aya, do you think Schuldich caused what happened back there?"

More silence. I wait it out.

"Yes," he sighs eventually, sounding unhappy and irritated. I can hardly blame him. But he hasn't told me to leave again; from Aya, that's practically encouragement. And a sign of just how bad things must be with him...

It's my turn to sigh. "Um, tell me if it's the wrong thing to ask," because I'm not sure I want to know, "but how did he sc- make things go wrong?"

"I don't know," after another pause. "But he told me I wouldn't be able to." Aya's voice is muffled and I suspect his face is in his pillow.

"He _told_ you?" I say incredulously. The sound of that laughing voice, taunting...it's easy to imagine. No wonder he was so nervous earlier. "Hell, Aya, that's enough to put anyone out of the mood. Remembering cruel things someone said. Happens to guys all the time, ask Meya." I bite my lip.

"So what did he tell you?" I venture after another minute of quiet. "Some bullshit about assassins being unfit to touch women? Meya understands things, Aya, that's why I-"

His soft toneless voice interrupts me. "Ruined. Filthy from him. Not qualified to receive love." Almost contemplative, like a familiar chant. "He's right."

"Aya, _no_." For the first time in this insane conversation I touch him, grabbing his shoulder and trying to roll him to face me. When he resists I lean over his body instead. It seems vital to say this looking straight at him. "Whatever he's done to you, _you're_ not bad. It's _not your fault_."

The beautiful face turned up to mine is perfectly calm. "No," he answers me. "But the end result is the same." His eyes are dry, all their tears doubtless cried out long ago. He's had how long to think about this?

Did he really say "years"?

"Argh!" I roll back to my previous position and inform the ceiling, "This is not an acceptable situation."

* * *

Part Four | Part Two

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