A House Divided

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Branch

Stories that follow Timoteo as he chooses his Guardians, acquires an outside advisor, and adopts a son that he doesn't know how to deal with at all. Eventually, that last part brings all the rest crashing down

Ink Burns

This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

This is a work of fanfiction, produced according to the principles of transformative fair use as put forward in US copyright law, and abiding by the custom and practice of fan-produced work in Japan, where the source texts were created. No author is in any way affiliated with any of the creators of the source texts, nor with the companies who distribute their products, nor any other rights holder, and these stories were not authorized by either the creators or the producers. Ink Burns is a fan site and the material here is freely provided for the enjoyment of fellow fan-community members; there is no commercial infringement.

This work is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 US license at the Ink Burns fanfiction archive (http://www.branchandroot.net/archive/).

"The Family You Choose" published on 2009-07-23 17:37:13.

"Two Hands Make A Pair" published on 2009-07-26 20:33:50.

"An Offer You Can't Refuse" published on 2009-08-18 20:50:30.

"Blood Will Tell" published on 2009-07-27 20:41:34.

"War of Aggression" published on 2009-08-20 11:39:14.

Attributions can be made by author's name and a link to the archive.

This ebook edition was published on September 6, 2019 by the Ink Burns fanfiction archive.

Cover illustration is "Feuilles d'automne" by Philippe Robert, public domain (http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Philippe_Robert_Feuilles_d%27automne_Ahorn.jpg).

Cover design by Branch.

The Family You Choose

It is time for Timoteo to choose his Guardians, and he's determined to do things his way. This project owes its inspiration to jetsam/thephoenixboy, who correctly guessed which fic was mine in the first round of khr_undercover, and requested a fic featuring Timoteo and his Guardians as her reward. I don't believe she quite expected her request to spawn an entire humongous arc, but what can I say? It was a provocative prompt! *grin* General audiences

For a character guide, see the appendix (warning: spoilers for the arc!)

"You wanted to see me, Mother?" Timoteo asked, as he let himself into her study after lunch. Her right hand, Taddeo, and her outside advisor, Cesare, were both with her, and Timoteo raised his eyebrows a bit, wondering what they had in store for him this time.

The Vongola Eighth didn't look up from the papers she was studying. Timoteo waited and wondered, and kept his expression carefully neutral until she had finished what she was doing and looked up at him. "Now that the fuss of the wedding is past us, it's time we confirmed you as the heir," she said, brisk, the way she did everything—part of how she dealt with being the female head of a Family like the Vongola, or so she'd explained to him, once. "Who have you been thinking of for your Guardians?"

"Is it already time to be thinking of that?" Timoteo asked, to make time for his mind to race ahead and turn over the possibilities. "You're still very young, Mother."

"How kind of you to say," she said, eyes glinting, not without humor. "I said that we were ready to confirm you as my heir, not that I was ready to step down. Don't get too far above yourself."

Timoteo grinned at her and settled in his usual chair. "Good, because I'm not ready to have your job yet."

"No, you're not," she said, crisp. "Nevertheless, I want a clear succession set up. God forbid that you should be faced with the mess I was, but it's better safe than sorry."

Timoteo let the smile slide off his face and nodded. God forbid, indeed: all of the Vongola knew how his mother had needed to fight for her position. "Of course."

"Well?" Cesare shifted away from his spot at the window. "Who are you thinking of for your Guardians?"

Timoteo was careful not to take a breath or to fidget—those were the tells that all three of them would see, and he needed every bit of advantage possible for this. "Paolo Gemello," he said, leaning back in his chair, hooking an arm over the back of it, casual and relaxed. "For my Lightning."

A careful first choice, that—Paolo was the one he expected the least trouble over. Who could object to Paolo, when Paolo was as steady as they came, serious and thoughtful and deadly with a pair of knives in his hands?

Mother and Cesare exchanged glances, and then nods; Timoteo stifled his sigh. No trouble there, definitely, though he hadn't really expected any. "Good," his mother said. "Who else?"

"Paolo comes as a set, you know." Timoteo smiled. "Piero, for Storm."

"Piero?" Taddeo echoed, frowning just a bit. "He's... hardly as steady as his brother."

"But he's still steady enough on his own," Timoteo said, keeping his voice even and relaxed. "If you know how to handle him. Paolo and I do." It helped that Piero recognized his own limitations, and trusted himself to be guided by cooler heads when it became necessary.

And no one could deny that Piero was competent as a fighter—even when he hadn't lost all control of his temper.

"Your Guardians must represent you," Cesare pointed out, kindly enough. "The twins know that. I doubt Piero will feel slighted if you overlook him in favor of his brother."

Timoteo frowned back at him. "It's not about slighting him. Piero is my Storm. He'll let himself be guided by my hand, even in his rages."

"You're sure of that?" his mother asked, not as Mother but as the Eighth. "Would you stake your life on it?"

"I would stake my honor on it," Timoteo replied.

This time the look that she and Cesare exchanged was longer, more meaningful, full of barely-perceptible cues like the lift of his eyebrow, the flicker of her eyes—until, finally, Cesare nodded and asked, "Who else?"

Timoteo considered how they'd taken his choice of Storm, and made a rapid decision to bump the two most difficult candidates up the list. If he could get them to swallow the Cloud and the Rain, then they'd be able to take the Mist and the Sun as palate cleansers. "Maria Purezza. For the Cloud, of course."

Cesare stared, and Taddeo covered his eyes, but his mother—Mother threw her head back and laughed, freely, right from the gut. "Oh, yes," she gasped, when her peals of laughter had calmed somewhat. "Oh, yes, was there ever anyone more suited to be the Cloud than Maria?"

Timoteo permitted himself a smile, keeping an eye on Cesare and Taddeo all the while. "I doubt it." Fierce, hawkish Maria, whose tongue was sharper than her knives and who'd broken the leg and the dignity of the last man who'd dared approach her with the thought that such a pretty face ought to belong to a sweet temper—yes, she'd been born to be the Cloud.

Cesare looked as though he had bitten into a lemon. "Yes, but..."

"But what?" Timoteo asked, smiling at him. "Doesn't she have the ideal temperament for the Cloud?"

"Yes, but..." Cesare frowned. "Certainly she's a splendid girl, but don't you think that this job mightn't be... beyond her capabilities?"

"I don't think that they are, but perhaps you'd like to go a few rounds with her in the training rooms to reassure yourself?" Timoteo suggested.

Cesare blanched; Timoteo was careful not to grin at him. "I'm—sure that won't be necessary."

"Then I'm not sure I see what the objection might be."

"It's that she's a woman," Taddeo said, unexpectedly. "You can't have a woman among your Guardians, for pity's sake. It's going to look terrible, and it's not at all fair to expose a young woman—even a young woman as formidable as we all know Maria to be—to the kinds of things people will say about her if she's your Guardian."

Ah, there it was. Timoteo settled back in his chair, casual, keeping an eye on Taddeo and Cesare, and the other on his mother, whose eyes had gone sharp, but who hadn't bothered to speak up yet. There wasn't going to be any help from that quarter, not yet, but there didn't seem to be any discouragement coming, either. "Regarding your last point first—perhaps it isn't fair, but I've found people so very rarely are, in our world. It is, I think, Maria's decision whether she wants to take on the burden of hearing such things said about herself. It's not my place to protect her from even getting to make that decision. She's a grown woman, not a child."

"Some would say that there is no difference," Mother said, with a little smile that was dangerous for all its apparent innocence.

Timoteo tipped his head, with a smile. "Then that is their great mistake," he murmured, "and it's one we can use to our advantage. I know how it will look to others if Maria becomes my Cloud. It will look as if I have a weakness, or as if I am showing favoritism, or any number of other unpleasant things. Since none of them will be true, I will be able to use that to my own ends. It's not a bad thing to be underestimated by the other Families—is it, Mother?"

"I've found it useful," she admitted, with a faint smile. "Though they do catch on, eventually."

"That's a bridge that I'm willing to cross when it becomes necessary." Timoteo looked from her to Taddeo and Cesare. "If I am to be the Ninth, I must take all the needs of my people into account. Surely this is where Maria belongs. I can't imagine that she will ever be happy doing the things that other women do."

"Indeed, but... she's a woman. Women have never been Guardians," Cesare said.

"Women have rarely been bosses in their own right," Timoteo said, with a smile he knew was sharp. "Surely you can't say that a lack of precedent should hold us back? If we'd let ourselves be constrained by precedent, where would the Vongola be now, I wonder?"

Mother laughed, short and harsh, and looked at her outside advisor. "Indeed. Where would it be?"

Cesare frowned at them both. "I don't like it."

"Can you say that she isn't able to do the job?" Timoteo asked him, letting the pleasant faÃ§ade slip away entirely. Cesare shook his head. "Can you say that there is any law of ours which forbids her being a Guardian?"

"No. No law. Merely long tradition." Cesare looked sour to admit it. "I see what you're driving at. And I say, you had better consider all the things that will be said."

"Talk is cheap." Timoteo shrugged, spreading his hands. "I doubt it will continue after Maria has broken a few skulls." He paused. "Diplomatically, of course."

"And may I live long enough to see it," his mother added, her devout tone undermined by her vicious grin.

"Indeed." Timoteo held Cesare's gaze, until Cesare finally looked away, muttering, "On your own head be it."

"Thank you." Timoteo kept his smile restrained, since it was too soon to gloat. There was the Rain to get through, still.

"Storm, Lightning, and Cloud." His mother raised an eyebrow at him, expectant. "Who else?"

Timoteo smiled at them, cheerfully, with a calm he didn't actually feel. "The Rain. That will be Rafaele Martelli, of course."

There was a beat of silence, and then all three of them spoke at once, in a welter of protests, from his mother's, "He's a dear boy, but hardly Guardian material," to Taddeo's blunter, "You must be crazy," and Cesare's, "He's not even Italian!"

Yes, he'd expected this to be the difficult one. Good to know he'd judged it correctly. Timoteo set his hands on his knees and waited for the immediate hubbub to die down. When it had, a bit, he raised his voice over it. "Is there any objection to Rafaele that you can give me that doesn't involve where his parents came from?" he demanded.

The three of them paused, all of them frowning, and Cesare looking distinctly mutinous. "That's not really the point," his mother said. "No one is saying that he's not a fine young man, and his father certainly served me with some distinction, but—"

"But they're not from here," Cesare broke in, harsh. "They're from bloody Tripoli."

"His parents are, yes," Timoteo said, evenly. "Rafaele himself was born and bred here. He's as Italian as I am."

"A pretty sentiment," Taddeo said, "but this isn't the kind of thing you can leave to idealism, boy. He's not one of us, and he never will be. You can't possibly have him as a Guardian. It isn't done."

"No?" Timoteo looked at him, and slowly lifted an eyebrow. "Weren't you the one who taught me our history? Who was the first Rain, if you please?"

"That was different," Taddeo said, after an uneasy pause. "That was the First."

"If it was good enough for the First, it's good enough for me." Timoteo shrugged. "At least Rafaele was born and raised here. I can't imagine that the first Rain blended in half as well as he does, considering."

"He doesn't blend at all," Mother said, slowly—regretfully, he thought. "Timoteo, you're going to have to be reasonable."

"I am being reasonable." It was difficult to stare all three of them down at once. Timoteo gritted his teeth and did it anyway. "There is no one who meshes half so well with my other Guardians. He even manages to get along with Maria, for Heaven's sake."

"No one's saying that he isn't capable, but he's not one of us," Cesare said, still frowning. "He never will be."

"What does it take to be one of us?" Timoteo frowned right back at him. "To be born here? To follow all our customs? To shed blood for the Vongola?" He spread his hands. "Which of these has Rafaele not done?"

They shifted, uneasily he thought, and let himself hope that meant he was gaining ground. "It's not that we aren't grateful," his mother said. "Especially about the last. But think of how it will look—"

"That will be my burden to carry, won't it?" Timoteo replied. "I tell you, I would rather have Rafaele as my Rain and deal with every other Family out there than choose a Rain Guardian who will be expedient." He could feel his Will wanting to flare with the anger he felt, and could feel it in his voice as he spoke. He couldn't make himself care. "Rafaele is the right choice, damn it."

His mother looked at him, hard, eyes glittering with her own Will. "This is your Will, then?"

"It is," Timoteo said, low.

Her mouth thinned, and she slashed a hand through the air. "Enough. We'll come back to the matter. Tell me who you want for your Mist."

It wasn't an outright refusal, so Timoteo smoothed his anger and his Flame away. "Gianni Staffieri."

"Gianni. Yes, I should have known." She smiled again, faintly, knowing, and Timoteo shrugged at her. The choice was obvious, since he couldn't remember a time when Gianni hadn't been his older, wiser shadow.

"Isn't he..." Cesare paused, coughing almost delicately, clearly searching for the right words. "There's always been something a bit... off... about him. Hasn't there?"

Timoteo suspected that Cesare wasn't exactly referring to Gianni's fey sense of humor, and shrugged. "He's the Mist. They're always a bit odd, aren't they?" he said, smiling and smooth. "Their feet don't quite touch the ground, but that's no barrier when you're as competent as Gianni is."

Cesare's brow cleared. "Ah, yes. You make a good point."

Timoteo breathed more easily as Mother and Cesare exchanged nods over the choice; that was Gianni seen to then, with even less fuss than he'd dared to hope for, considering. "And then, for the Sun... really, who else could I choose but Michele Rizzo?" No one had ever doubted where laughing, irrepressible Michele's affinities had lain, not when he overflowed with energy and asked only to be aimed in a direction—any direction, really.

"True enough," Cesare said, smiling—well, Cesare had raised some hell in his own time, or so Timoteo had heard. "He'll do well for you."

"Indeed." Mother nodded at Cesare's words, and that was done.

Five, then, and the question of Rafaele still up in the air. Timoteo held his silence as Mother rose from her chair and moved to the sideboard, pouring drinks—four of them, scotch gold in the cut-glass decanter as she poured and handed the glasses around to them. Were they to consider the business closed for the time being?

Timoteo turned the glass in his hands, watching her narrowly as she resumed her seat and lifted her own glass. "A toast," she said. "To the future of the Vongola."

Taddeo and Cesare murmured agreement for the sentiment, and drank with her.

Timoteo stayed still.

"Will you not drink?" Mother asked him.

"Not until I know what will become of my people," Timoteo said, steadily despite the queasiness in his gut. "I don't know yet what the future of the Vongola will look like. But I know what I am willing to fight for."

Mother's eyes went dark. "Think carefully," she said, softly. "This is a small thing. Are you sure that you're willing to declare war for it? I've told you how bitter the battles I've fought were. Is this really worth it, when you don't even know that you will win?"

"I don't see why I won't," Timoteo replied, quietly. "I know who I will have on my side." He drew a breath. "And I can't think of anything which would be a better reason to fight for. He's one of my people. I will not betray him by saying that he isn't."

His mother held his eyes for a moment, and then another, and then her mouth ticked up at the corner. "Indeed." There was something hovering in her expression—it was something that was normally only there when she was surveying the Vongola's holdings. Timoteo blinked as he identified it as pride. "A worthy answer, Cesare, don't you think?"

"I can't dispute it," he said, low and unhappy. "I've worked all my life to put the Vongola back in order. I won't let it fall back into chaos now."

Timoteo bowed his head, acknowledging the point. "Neither will I," he promised.

"Oh, very well," Cesare muttered. "Have him if you must."

"Thank you." Timoteo kept his smile restrained, because Mother had always insisted that graciousness in victory was necessary. "To the future of the Vongola, then."

And this time they all drank.

The task of actually asking his six candidates to serve was left to Timoteo, as was only proper. He decided to begin with Maria.

It wasn't that he didn't think she'd say yes, but she did have a rather formidable nature. It would be all too easy to delay asking her till he couldn't put it off any longer, and that would only offend her.

He found her—where else?—in one of the training rooms, and stood inside the door to watch her pummel Vittore, who was half again her size, into the mat with deadly efficiency. Watching her, Timoteo could only be grateful that her loyalty was to the Vongola—and that she'd disdained to use her own good looks as the weapon they could have been. If she'd played up the heart-shaped face and the curves of her figure, she'd have been unstoppable.

Maria only deigned to notice Timoteo when Vittore was a groaning mess on the mat. "Here to fight?" she asked, raking sweaty tendrils of hair back from her face.

"Yes," Timoteo said, after a moment's consideration, since a fight nearly always put her in a receptive mood.

"Well, hurry up, then," she said, snapping her fingers at him as she turned back to Vittore, urging him off the mat with her foot. Timoteo stripped out of his jacket and tie as she did, and stepped into the ring, calling on his Will as Vittore limped away.

Maria's eyes lit with an unholy sort of joy as they circled each other, until she lashed out with a fist and the sparring match could begin properly.

They traded blows for several minutes, fighting each other to a standstill, and only stopped when they were both winded and bruised. "All right," she said, after they'd begun to catch their breath, bracing her hands on her hips and studying him. "What do you want?"

"How do you know I want something?" Timoteo replied, amused.

"It's all over your face. What is it?" she demanded, impatient as ever.

Timoteo felt his mouth crook; she was a Cloud, through and through. "They're going to confirm me as the Ninth," he said. "Will you be my Cloud?"

He rarely had the luxury of being able to surprise Maria, but this time he seemed to have done it. She stopped short and stared at him, eyes rounded just a bit. "Say what?"

"Will you be my Cloud Guardian?" he repeated, patiently.

Maria stared at him, and then snorted. "How the hell do you figure they're going to let that happen?" she asked, voice gruff, the way it went when she had to hide some emotion. "In case you haven't noticed, I've got the wrong set of dangly bits for the job."

"So does my mother, technically," Timoteo said. "She and Cesare agreed to it. Will you?"

She folded her arms, regarding him silently. "You're serious, then."

"Of course I am." Timoteo grinned at her. "Who else can I trust to give me the whole, unvarnished truth?"

"Mm." Maria continued to study him until, finally, she was satisfied, and nodded. "Yes," she said, and then did something he wouldn't have expected—she bent over his hand and kissed it. "I will be your Cloud," she promised, and then straightened up again. "Besides. I want to see what kind of Ninth you're going to make, anyway."

"A good one, I should hope," he said, elated by the acceptance.

Maria's answering smile was faint and fierce. "We shall see what we can make of you." She dusted her hands off. "Now. Who else have you spoken to?"

"You were the first."

She didn't quite manage to hide the pleased look in her eyes. "Idiot. You should have gone to one of the boys first." She sniffed. "There's propriety to consider. Or so I've been told."

"People are going to talk no matter what," Timoteo said, firmly. "So fuck 'em."

This time her smile was broader. "I suppose I can go along with that."

The twins shared a set of rooms in the wing given over to such things, living among the rest of the Vongola's foot soldiers like they had their whole lives. That would probably need to change, Timoteo thought, knocking at their door. But perhaps their new status would encourage them to make the shift without protesting. Besides, Paolo had been paying court to a pretty girl in town, last he'd heard. This would probably decide her, one way or another.

Piero was the one to get the door, and grinned when he saw that it was Timoteo. "You're just about in time for supper," he said, waving him and Maria in.

"I wasn't aware that either of you could cook," Timoteo said, dry.

"Oh, we can't." Piero waved an airy hand, and lowered his voice. "But Paolo's woman can."

"Ah, I see." And indeed, now that they were inside the apartment, he could hear laughter from the kitchen—a woman's, clear and bright, with Paolo's lower tones beneath.

"Yeah." Piero turned and yelled, "Paolo, hey! Company!"

Company manners never had made much of an impression on Piero.

Timoteo was conscious of the way Maria had positioned herself at his shoulder, silently, as Paolo appeared from the kitchen, looking relaxed. "Timoteo, Maria. This is a surprise. Are you joining us for supper?"

For a moment, Timoteo hesitated to interrupt the domesticity of the evening with business, especially as Paolo smiled and curled an arm around her. Paolo's woman appeared behind his shoulder—she was pretty, round and soft, with melting eyes. Just now she looked worried and uncertain—perhaps because she hadn't been expecting guests, though Timoteo suspected it was more than that. "No," he said, and hid his smile at the flicker of relief in her eyes. "We're just stopping by for a moment. Business."

The smile slid off Paolo's face. "Ah. I see." He looked rueful. "You have terrible timing, I hope you know."

But Piero's eyes turned bright, avid. "Yeah?" he said, eager. "What's up?"

"I'm to be confirmed as the Ninth," Timoteo told them, and watched their expressions change again: Paolo went even more serious, and some of the brightness in Piero's eyes was replaced with—wistfulness, regret, possibly resignation. The woman's mouth turned tighter. No doubt she was wondering whether she wanted to hear what was to come.

"Congratulations," Paolo said, after a moment. "Boss."

"Thank you." Timoteo stood straighter. "Will you serve me as my Lightning, Paolo?"

"Yes, of course." Paolo moved away from his woman and crossed the room to bend over Timoteo's hand, pressing his forehead to the back of it. "I'd be honored."

"Hah, I told you so!" Piero grinned, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "I told you that he'd pick you, you great ninny."

"It's not my place to presume what the boss's plans are," Paolo said, primly enough, though he was fighting down a grin. "Honestly, Piero..." He turned to his woman, who was standing still and white-knuckled in the kitchen door. "Well, Anna? How about it now?"

"Will I have to share you with your job now, too?" she asked, low and strained.

"Don't be stupid," Maria said, dry as dust. "You would have had to share him with his job even if he weren't going to be the Lightning. Use your head, woman. He's Vongola."

The woman—Anna, Timoteo supposed—flinched. "I have to think about this," she said, and whirled around, disappearing into the kitchen.

Paolo's mouth flattened as he looked after her, and tightened even further as things began to clatter in the kitchen. "Women," he said, shaking his head.

"My apologies," Timoteo said. "I didn't mean to ruin your evening."

"Don't be ridiculous, Boss," Paolo said, and shrugged. "You haven't ruined anything. She'll come around."

Piero grinned and slapped him on the back. "Congratulations," he said, dispelling the brief moment of grimness. "Don't forget us little people when you go off to be the big bad Guardian, huh?"

Yes, he'd thought that Piero had been brooding on being left behind. "Piero," Timoteo said, before Paolo could make a reply to that. "Will you be my Storm?"

He rather wished he'd had a camera, just so he could preserve the goggle-eyed look of surprise that Piero turned on him. "Me?" he said, pointing at his own chest. "Really?"

"I can't think of who I would rather have," Timoteo told him, as an identical smile bloomed on both their faces.

Piero bounded over to him and seized his hand, kissing it. "Yes! Hell, yes, even! I'll be the best damn Storm the Vongola ever had."

Timoteo grinned. "I know you will be," he said, pleased with the sense that his people were already beginning to fall into place around him.

Family etiquette called for him to take at least one of his new Guardians with him as he made his rounds, but Timoteo stopped by Gianni's quarters by himself, late in the evening—the last thing he would do before making his way home.

Gianni didn't seem the least bit surprised to see him, and had, judging by the decanter of wine and the glasses already set out, been expecting him. "I hear that congratulations are in order," he said, with a small smile, after he'd seen Timoteo installed in the apartment's most comfortable chair and had poured him a glass of the wine.

"How do you hear these things so quickly?" Timoteo asked him.

Gianni shrugged, smiling behind his glass. "I have my ways."

"I'm sure you do," Timoteo snorted. He swirled the wine his glass, slowly, watching the motion of it. "Tell me—does the Devil offer good terms?"

Gianni smiled. "Reasonable enough, I'm sure." He tipped his head, watching Timoteo, inscrutable. "Are you ready?"

"For a job like this one?" Timoteo huffed softly. "Can you ever be ready for a job like this one?"

"A good point," Gianni conceded, and they lapsed into silence over their wine.

"I suppose I'm as ready to get started as I can be," Timoteo said, presently. "But all the same, I'm not ashamed to say that I'm glad Mother has no immediate plans to retire, God willing."

"God willing," Gianni echoed, with a nod.

Timoteo took another drink of his wine, and looked at his friend. "So," he said. "Will you stand at my side?"

"I've always stood at your side," Gianni said, low and intent. "God willing, I always will."

"Thank you," Timoteo murmured to him. "I'm glad that I have you to depend on."

"Always," Gianni promised him.

Timoteo smiled at him; after a moment, Gianni settled back in his seat, and inquired after who Timoteo was calling to be his other Guardians. They passed the next half hour discussing Timoteo's plans for the future and the Vongola pleasantly enough, until Timoteo set his empty glass down and eyed the time. "I should get home," he said. "Gabriella will be wondering where I am."

"Of course," Gianni said, easy, and rose to see him to the door. "I'll see you tomorrow afternoon."

"Until then," Timoteo said, and let himself out.

He spent the walk back to his and Gabriella's rooms considering the sacrifices that friendship felt called to make.

Timoteo found Michele in the morning, coming in, before he'd even meant to go find him. By the appearance of him—scruffy around the chin, blond curls a mess—Michele had been out all night. He greeted Timoteo with a grin and bright eyes regardless. "Timoteo! Just the man I wanted to see!"

"Am I?" Timoteo couldn't help but wonder if Michele had already heard, but Michele's merry grin didn't seem smug in any way. "What on earth for?"

"I'm going to be married." Michele announced it with a flourish of his arms and little jig. "She said yes!"

"They always say yes to you," Timoteo said, entertained, and not honestly sure which "she" Michele meant this time. "They never seem to mean it for very long." The swathe Michele had managed to cut through the local female population was amazing. A person would think that they'd have learned by now, but apparently not.

"This time is different!" Michele glanced around, and drew a little closer. "There's going to be a baby," he confided.

"Ah," Timoteo said, because now it was coming clear. "My congratulations."

"Thank you." Michele grinned at him. "So, what do you say? Will you be my best man?"

"If business allows, yes, of course." Timoteo smiled as Michele whooped and did another dance, and waited for him to calm down. "I have a question for you as well."

Michele spread his arms wide. "Anything you like," he proclaimed. "Anything at all!"

Timoteo glanced around, but for the moment, the front hall was empty, except for them. "They're going to confirm me as the Ninth." Michele's eyes went wide; before he could exclaim his congratulations, Timoteo hurried to add, "Will you be my Sun?"

That stunned some of the open glee off Michele's face, and his expression turned serious. "I'd be honored," he said, dropping to a knee and taking Timoteo's hands between his. "My life for yours, Boss." Then his expression changed back to a grin as he bounced to his feet. "Though you'll forgive me if I hope that such a thing doesn't become necessary. I'm going to be a family man, you know."

"So I'd heard," Timoteo said, dry, but Michele didn't hear him, already off on another tangent.

"Perhaps it'll be a boy," he said, eyes gleaming with the light of his new scheme. "We can raise him with yours—Gabriella's got to get pregnant soon, right?—and he can grow up to be your son's Guardian, too. Wouldn't that be a fine thing?"

"I can't imagine anything finer," Timoteo told him, gravely, and let Michele draw him off to spin more castles in the air. He didn't have the heart to ask Michele what he'd do if it were a girl.

Given Michele's enthusiasm, probably concoct schemes that would have her married off to Timoteo's first son, he decided, with a grin.

Rafaele had elected to stay on at his mother's even after he'd come of age, because (as he'd quite sensibly pointed out) she'd had no one else to look after her. The quest to find him, therefore, took Timoteo and Gianni from the main house down to the little cottage that she kept and Rafaele looked after.

They were probably going to have to change that somehow, Timoteo thought, surveying it and its neat little garden. He couldn't imagine that she would be willing to move from the place that had been her home for decades. They'd have to find someone to keep house for her, he decided, and made a note to speak to Gianni about it later.

Rafaele himself came around the side of the house, interrupting Timoteo's thoughts, and greeted them both, cheerfully. "I'll be with you in just a bit," he said. "I have to finish watering Mother's flowers for her." He gestured with the brimming buckets he carried, as if to underline the point.

"No rush," Timoteo told him, amused.

He and Gianni watched as Rafaele puttered through the garden, until Gianni leaned over and asked, in an undertone, "Does he ever give you the sense that you're an absolutely horrible son?"

"Occasionally," Timoteo said, wry. "You get used to it."

Rafaele was as quick as he'd promised to be, though, and invited them inside for cool drinks as soon as he'd finished with the garden, along with a tray of bread and fruit. "It's not much," he apologized. "Market day, you know."

That must have been where his mother was. "It's plenty," Timoteo assured him.

"Mm." Rafaele's eyes moved back and forth between the two of them, quick and assessing. "I'll hazard a guess and say that this isn't a social visit, is it?"

"Not entirely," Timoteo said, and set his lemonade down.

Rafaele's smile was wry. "How ever did I guess?" he asked, and clasped his hands on his knee. "What would the Vongola like from me today?"

"Something a bit more complicated than helping me steal peaches from Signor Ferla's orchard, I'm afraid," Timoteo told him, and heard Gianni's muffled snort of laughter. "They're confirming me as Mother's heir. Will you serve as my Rain?"

Rafaele went still and surprised. "Timoteo..." he said, slowly. "It's an honor, really, but... have you thought this through?"

"From every angle," Timoteo, watching the hesitation moving across Rafaele's face. "You're the man I want."

"What we want and what is practical are very different things," Rafaele persisted, hesitation beginning to settle into stubbornness. "I'm not sure that this is practical. At all."

"I am more than willing to deal with impracticalities," Timoteo assured him, a bit dismayed by Rafaele's resistance, which he hadn't really expected to be more than token. "That's the whole of the job, when you think about it. So. Will you do it?"

"I'm not really Vongola," Rafaele said, quietly. "You know that. I'm happy to serve your Family, but I'm not a part of it and I'm never going to be."

"Don't be such a jackass," Gianni said, before Timoteo could react to that. "You're not the one who gets to decide who's Family and who's not. The boss is the one who does that."

Rafaele stared at him, clearly startled by the blunt language.

Timoteo forced himself not to smile; it was always entertaining to watch Gianni catch someone off-guard for the first time. "Just as Gianni says," he murmured. "It's my decision who belongs in my Family, and I say you do. You've already fought for me and bled for me. You've laughed with me, and you danced at my wedding. What more is there to Family than that?"

Rafaele looked at him, the seconds ticking past, and then smiled, faintly rueful. "A few things, perhaps." He stopped, looking away from them both. "Are you sure that this is the decision you want to make?"

"Very sure," Timoteo told him.

Rafaele looked back, and then nodded, slow and measured. "Then, yes." He stood and moved, kneeling for Timoteo. "I will serve."

"Thank you," Timoteo murmured, relief running through him. He drew Rafaele up. "Anyone who says you're not Vongola will answer to me," he promised.

Rafaele's smile in response to that was bright, and even a little wondering. "If you say so, Boss."

There were some sour faces among the highest-ranking members of his mother's advisors and the other men who helped her run the Vongola. Timoteo scanned them, noting who looked most irritated and committing their names to memory. He'd have to be their Boss one of these days—pray God one of these days a good way hence—and it wouldn't pay to burn too many bridges with this, if he could help it.

But for now, there wasn't much that he could do, so he ignored them for the time being, along with the faint susurrus of talk about his Rain and his Cloud. It quieted when his mother accepted the two boxes from Cesare and turned to the room at large. "These are the Vongola rings," she said, firm and clear, and opened the boxes to display the halves of the rings to the crowd. "They are our greatest treasures, and today we bring them forth to mark the way for those who will come after us." She drew the first pair of ring halves from their places and fit them together. "Maria Purezza, come forward and take the Cloud ring."

Maria stepped forward, head held high, and accepted the ring. The room held its breath as she slid it onto her finger, but nothing happened.

As Maria stepped to the side, Mother drew out the next pair of halves. "Paolo Gemello," she called, "Come forward and take the Lightning ring."

Timoteo glanced through the faces in the crowd as he did, and found Paolo's Anna there. Her expression was still a bit strained, but she found a smile as Paolo took his ring and his place. They must have reached some accommodation after all.

"Piero Gemello, come forward and take the Storm ring."

Piero very nearly swaggered forward, every line of him set with pride and eagerness. He fell in at his brother's side with a blinding grin; Timoteo noted that some of the observers couldn't seem to help grinning themselves, watching him.

"Rafaele Martelli," his mother said, and every face went still and watchful. "Come forward and take the Rain ring."

Rafaele moved forward to accept the ring from her hand, steady and careful, and gravely slid it onto his finger. Nothing happened, and the crowd muttered and shifted as he took his place with the rest of Timoteo's Guardians.

"Michele Rizzo, come forward and take the Sun ring," his mother called, her voice cutting across the rustling and muttering.

A good next choice: Michele's step practically bounced, and he won more than a few smiles after accepting the ring and turning to blow a kiss into the crowd. Timoteo just hoped it was aimed at his fiancÃ©e and not someone else.

"Gianni Staffieri, come forward and take the Mist ring," Mother called.

Timoteo swallowed butterflies down as Gianni moved forward and accepted his ring, solemn as a judge, and moved to stand with the circle of Guardians who were waiting. That was six, then.

Mother fit the last set of halves together, forming the Sky ring, and looked to him. "Timoteo Vongola," she said, slow and serious, "come forward and take the Sky ring, and let the people see how you will lead them with the Guardians you have chosen."

Timoteo drew a breath and stepped forward, taking the ring from his mother's hand. It lay cool and heavy in his palm until he slid it on; then it fit on his finger comfortably, and nothing terrible happened to prove that he was unworthy of its weight.

He rather thought that his was not the only stifled sigh of relief.

Timoteo squared his shoulders and turned to his Guardians, who came to him with hands outstretched and faces that reflected his own joy and pride and solemnity back to him. The rings burst into Flame and light as they did, making their collective Wills manifest and burning the last traces of doubt from Rafaele and Maria's eyes.

Timoteo finally let himself smile at this, the first proper beginnings of his Family, and joined his hands with theirs. Let the outsiders doubt his choices if they liked. With a Family like his, a man could do anything at all.

- end -

Two Hands Make A Pair

In which the Vongola Ninth's Mist and Rain reach an agreement, and establish a pattern that will carry them forward. This is set about ten years before "Blood Will Tell." Timoteo has been the Ninth for a little under a decade at this point. This is a sidestory for the arc, focusing pretty much entirely on two of the original characters, and is not necessary to the main thrust of A House Divided—but it may make some character motivations make more sense later.Fraught smut

Gianni may have been the Vongola Ninth's right hand, and his Mist Guardian besides, but he wasn't too proud to admit it when he was tired. And tonight, he was tired.

Admitting that he was tired to himself and letting it show to anyone else were, however, two entirely separate things. There were miles yet to go this night—metaphorical ones, if not literal ones—and Gianni frankly didn't have the time to be tired.

He kept his eyes on the wall opposite him as Timoteo stooped over his wife's bed and murmured his goodnights. Her reply was low, reedy, barely any louder than the machines that surrounded her.

She was getting worse.

A few moments more, and the Ninth joined him in the hall, closing the door after him, gently. The minute it was shut, some of the straightness left his shoulders, and the smile faded from his mouth.

There were times when one could say something, and times when nothing at all could help. Gianni had lived long enough to be able to tell the difference, and waited now until the Ninth had cleared his throat. "Come on, then," he said, gruff. "We have work to do."

"Of course, Boss," Gianni said, catching Rafaele's eye in passing as he fell in with the Ninth. The Rain looked almost as tired as Gianni felt.

But neither of them were as tired as the Ninth, so Gianni simply shrugged at him in passing. Rafaele hung back to speak briefly with the bodyguards who'd be taking the night watch at the hospital—no doubt to instruct them to telephone the hotel the instant there seemed to be any change for the worse—and then jogged after them to catch up.

Timoteo began talking almost before they were all in the car, bringing up plans for an expansion into the Pozzo Nero's territory. He had lots to say, and Gianni was glad not to be driving, so that he could devote his full attention to the Ninth's ideas. They weren't bad. They were a little sketchy, of course, but that was only to be expected when the Ninth had come up with the idea while keeping vigil at his wife's bedside.

The Pozzo Nero weren't going to know what had hit them. If they were at all wise, they wouldn't try to resist too hard.

"Well, then, get that started for me," the Ninth said, as their little convoy rolled up to the hotel and the man they had stationed out front signaled an all clear. "I want to move at the end of the week."

Gianni blinked; the Ninth wanted to move that fast? "The end of the week?" he repeated.

Rafaele broke in. "That's short notice, Boss."

"There's no sense in wasting time," the Ninth grunted, as one of their men sprang forward to open the door for him.

"Of course not," Gianni agreed, stepping out into the spring evening after him. "It's going to take time to get the ball rolling, though. We're not exactly at home."

"I could hardly forget that," Timoteo snapped.

"I don't think that's what Gianni meant," Rafaele said, smooth and calm. He surrendered the car's keys to another of their men and came around the car to join them. "Boss, have you really thought this through?"

He'd timed it well, asking just as they stepped through the hotel's front doors. The Ninth couldn't answer as they passed into the hotel's lobby and its crowd of rich, laughing patrons, most of whom ignored the knot of black-suited men moving through their midst. By the time they'd reached the elevators, the Ninth's temper had had the time to flash in his eyes and then subside again. "You're right," he said, once they were alone in a car and it had begun its slow ascent to their floor. "I wasn't thinking." He ran a hand over his face. "I forget that not everyone has the time to sit and think that I do, these days."

Gianni avoided Rafaele's eyes in the mirrored walls of the elevator's car, and simply shrugged. "I'll call Maria tonight and have her and Paolo begin assessing things, so that everything will be ready when we get home."

"Not tonight," the Ninth said; Gianni watched his shoulders slump further in their reflection. "Tomorrow will be soon enough."

"Of course, Boss," Gianni murmured, as the elevator chimed for their floor and opened onto the hall.

The Ninth found a smile for them, from somewhere, as they stepped out of the car. "Indeed. Take the rest of the night off, you two. It's still young." He flicked his hands at them, and then moved away, flanked by his bodyguards.

Rafaele stopped next to Gianni. "Take the night off, he says." He turned a wry smile on Gianni. "I think he's mistaking us for Michele."

"Perhaps," Gianni agreed, watching the retreat of the Ninth's back, until he disappeared into his suite.

"Still, it's not a bad idea." Rafaele stretched and knocked his shoulder against Gianni's. "Come with me. I have a bottle of wine. I could use your opinion on it."

Gianni glanced at him. "Rafaele, you've never in your life needed an opinion on a bottle of wine."

"I need an opinion for this one," Rafaele told him, placidly, and gestured. "After you."

Gianni snorted, but let himself be ushered down the hall towards Rafaele's suite of rooms.

"Well?" Rafaele said later, when Gianni reached the bottom of his glass. "What do you think?"

"I'm not sure." Gianni held out his glass. "I'd better have another."

Rafaele laughed and obliged him, topping off his own glass in the process, and Gianni settled more comfortably into his chair. Hotel rooms were the same the world over, but this one wasn't too bad. It was comfortable enough for sitting in and sharing a bottle of wine, in any case, he decided, sipping the wine and savoring it, red and round and full on his tongue. "It's a good bottle," he said. He leaned his head back and sighed. "You didn't really need me to tell you that," he added, from behind closed eyes.

"No, but you needed to stop working," Rafaele said, dry as bone. "And I wasn't sure that even a direct order was going to get you to do it."

"This is hardly the time to be lazy," Gianni said, still with his eyes closed. "Or careless. Whatever he needs—"

"We should do, yes. But that doesn't include rushing headlong into a petty war with the Pozzo Nero just because the Boss is too distracted to think straight," Rafaele said.

Gianni's eyes popped open, and he sat up to argue the point. "We both know—"

"We both know I'm right. Gianni, think, will you? Be his right hand and think about what it would mean if we went haring off on this." Rafaele was looking at him, steady and calm. "If nothing else, think of what Maria would say."

That was... a legitimate point. Gianni leaned back and covered his eyes, imagining what their Cloud would have said if he'd called to tell her they were moving against the Pozzo Nero this week. "God."

"I suspect even God wouldn't be able to help you."

"Perhaps not." Gianni lowered his hand and reached for his wine. "Just as well that we have you to be sensible, isn't it?"

"At least when it comes to matters like this one," Rafaele said, and shrugged.

There was something there that Gianni didn't quite like the sound of. "Matters like this one?" he echoed.

Rafaele took a drink of his wine, dark eyes steady over the glass, and then set it down. "You're not entirely rational on matters that touch the Boss directly," he said, finally, matter-of-fact about it. "Not when it comes to doing the things that you think will make him happy. Or just ease his mind when he's suffering."

"That sounds suspiciously like you're accusing me of failing him as his right hand," Gianni said, anger rising in his chest, tight and hot.

Rafaele continued to look at him, eyes direct and clear. "I'm not. You're a good right hand. One of the best, even. But when you look at the Boss and see Timoteo and not the Ninth, your heart gets in the way of your head."

The knot of anger turned icy and changed into a sick twisting in his gut. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean," Gianni said, going cold all over.

Rafaele's answering smile was infinitely kind, and slid between his ribs like a knife. "Gianni, I know," he said, gently. "We all do, although I expect the twins try not to think about it too closely. It's all right."

The enormity of that simple statement was too much to grasp all at once; as precious seconds ticked by, Gianni knew that he ought to be denying the accusation, or pretending that he didn't follow Rafaele's meaning—doing something that would defuse the situation. But he couldn't quite marshal the wits to do it with, and sat, staring like some lackwit as Rafaele watched him, patiently. "You..."

"Not everyone would be able to see it," Rafaele continued, still with that gentle, relentless look on his face. "You hide it very well. But we're your Family. We know you better than anyone else does. When we're united in one purpose, you can't exactly hide your heart from us."

"Why are you telling me this now?" Gianni demanded, taking refuge in harshness against the probability that he was about to lose—everything.

"It's never presented a problem till now." Rafaele lifted a shoulder, shrugging. He reached for his wine again and drained the glass. "And I don't think it needs to be a problem. What you need is someone to watch your back for you."

Gianni couldn't help sneering. "I suppose you're offering?"

"Of course I am. I'm your friend. And your Family." Rafaele raised an eyebrow at him. "What else would I do?"

Gianni could feel his mouth twist at all the ugly possibilities. "I can think of half a dozen things. None of them involve watching my back."

"We're Vongola," Rafaele reminded him. "That's not our way. Not with our own." He seemed to consider it, and reached over to close his hands around Gianni's, his grip warm and reassuring. "Gianni. I will guard you. I will help you. You have my word on this—my word and my oath."

"Rafaele..." Gianni took a breath and steadied himself against the strength of Rafaele's hands around his and the solemn weight in his gaze. Now was no time for pride, not when the Family itself was at stake. "Someone to... oversee me in this would... be most welcome." He looked away. "My weaknesses must not be allowed to affect the Family."

"Here, now." Rafaele gave his hands a shake; when Gianni looked back, he was frowning. "None of that. Love is not a weakness. You're not weak, either."

"Don't try to flatter me," Gianni said, not quite able to stop the way his mouth twisted on the words. "We both know what this is." It was kind of Rafaele to try to spare his pride, of course, but the man ought to have been calling for him to resign—from his position as the Ninth's right hand, if nothing else.

"No," Rafaele said, slowly, watching him. "No, I'm beginning to think that we don't." He frowned again, eyes going thoughtful. "I think you've been carrying this alone for too long."

"It's not the sort of thing you share," Gianni told him. "Not really."

"No?" Rafaele's smile was quick, sudden—one of his I've just had an idea smiles. "I wonder about that."

"Rafaele," Gianni began, although trying to forestall the Rain when he'd decided to meddle was nearly always a lost cause. "It's—"

It's all right, he'd been meaning to say, or perhaps, It's nothing I'm not used to. Rafaele didn't let him do it. He let go of Gianni's hands and came out of his chair to lean over Gianni's. "You shouldn't think yourself alone," he said, quietly, and curved a hand around Gianni's jaw.

"What in God's name do you think you're doing?" Gianni asked, low and harsh.

"Kissing you," Rafaele said, with an easy smile. "We'll see about the rest in a bit, I think."

Rafaele had him caged in well enough that he couldn't really recoil when Rafaele leaned closer and pressed their mouths together, kissing him, slow and hot and competent. If he felt any qualms about kissing another man, he gave no sign of it. He kissed Gianni insistently, mouth moving against Gianni's until Gianni answered it, grudgingly, and kissed back, feeling Rafaele's pleased rumble more than hearing it when he did. "What are you doing?" he asked again, when Rafaele finally drew back, just a bit. "I don't want your pity. I don't need that."

"It's not pity, you stubborn bastard." Rafaele smiled at him, wry and exasperated. He rubbed his thumb against the corner of Gianni's jaw. "It's friendship."

Gianni leaned into the touch, to his own disgust. "You're not—like I am," he said. "Friendship doesn't go this far."

Rafaele's mouth crooked. "There's a man by the name of Kinsey who I think you ought to read up on," he said, obliquely, and then leaned in to kiss Gianni again, slow and sure. "You let me decide just how far my friendship goes," he added, against Gianni's mouth. "Trust me to know what I'm doing."

Gianni let out a breath that was shaky, and not just because of the thought of what it might mean to be able to trust Rafaele with this part of himself. "You really think you know what you're doing here?"

"Been studying on it for a while, so I figure I do," Rafaele said, still with that relaxed smile.

"Do you?" Gianni asked, low and harsh, resenting the easiness of the offer. "You're ready to let me bend you over and fuck you? And to suck my cock? And to know it's not even you I'll be thinking about?"

Rafaele's eyes and smile stayed steady. "Yes." He seemed to stop, and reconsider. "But if you're thinking about someone else the whole time, then that's a sign I'm doing something wrong. Don't you think?" he asked, letting his hand fall away from Gianni's jaw. It dropped into Gianni's lap, curving over the front of Gianni's slacks and palming his cock through them, kneading the half-hard length of it. Softly, he added, "I don't think your mind has even wandered all that far."

Damn him for a smug bastard. "You should know what you're getting into," Gianni told him, half-gasping the words, hips lifting into the pressure of Rafaele's palm—God, it had been too long since he'd done anything like this, and it showed all too clearly in how he was responding, especially when Rafaele smiled and pressed harder. "Rafaele—"

"Enough," Rafaele told him. "I know what I'm doing." He kissed Gianni again, slowly, purposefully, until Gianni arched against him and caught his hand on one of Rafaele's solid shoulders, gripping it. "Unless you have other objections?" he murmured against Gianni's mouth, fingers undoing his slacks and sliding inside.

There were plenty, only Gianni couldn't quite manage to lay hands on them, not with Rafaele's fingers wrapping around him, stroking over him, sure and unhesitating. He suspected that Rafaele knew it, from the way Rafaele smiled at the incoherent sound he made when Rafaele's thumb dragged over his head. "Bastard," Gianni said, low, managing that much, at least.

"Yes, when I need to be," Rafaele agreed, and kissed him again, deep and hot, mouth moving against Gianni's, coaxing, until Gianni surrendered to the slowness of it and to the heat twining through him, and let his hips rock into the grip of Rafaele's fist. It took an embarrassingly short time after that for the heat to draw him out of himself, pleasure rushing down every nerve, sweeping him along with it.

When he could begin to think again, Rafaele had pressed himself close, fitting himself against Gianni as best as the chair would let him, and had an arm around him, supporting him. "Yes," he was saying against Gianni's ear, voice pitched low and intimate. "I have you. It's all right, I have you."

That sent a shudder of something down Gianni's spine, slow and convulsive, and he rested his forehead against Rafaele's shoulder. "Fuck," he rasped, when he could manage to speak again.

"If you like." Rafaele's lips moved against the side of his through, shaping the words against his skin. "I've got you."

"You're absolutely insane," Gianni told him, since it was the purest truth. Rafaele's shoulder shook under his forehead—laughter, low and warm. "You are," he insisted, and reached between them to prove it. "As much as I appreciate the—" He stopped short as his fingers encountered the unmistakable lines of Rafaele's cock straining against the confines of his slacks.

Rafaele's laughter husked against his ear. "Mmm," he said, "you were saying?"

Gianni lifted his head and eyed him. Rafaele's smile was sleek and satisfied, though his eyes were hungry. "I cannot believe you."

Rafaele arched an eyebrow at him. "What is there to believe?"

Gianni declined to answer that; something about the way Rafaele looked at him suggested that he already knew. "We should move," he said, instead, and watched Rafaele's eyes go dark. "To the bed."

"I like that idea," Rafaele murmured, and collected another kiss from him before drawing back, straightening up and turning towards the bedroom.

Gianni followed after him, watching the easy, unselfconscious way Rafaele stripped out of his shirt and draped it over a chair, and shed his slacks with the same careless ease before finally stepping out of his underwear and then stretching out on the turned-down sheets.

It made him wonder if Rafaele actually knew how beautiful he was.

"Well, are you just going to stand there?" Rafaele asked him, after a moment, smiling like he was satisfied with the way Gianni had been staring.

"No," Gianni said, coming away from the doorway and shedding his own clothes before joining him. "I wasn't planning on it," he added, leaning over Rafaele and kissing him.

Rafaele arched against him with a pleased sound, hands finding Gianni's back and stroking down it. "Mm, glad to hear it," he said, with a fearless smile. "What do you—"

Gianni stopped him, laying two fingers against his lips. "Enough," he said, quietly. "Let me."

"Of course," Rafaele said, when Gianni took his fingers away. "Anything you like."

The wonder of it was that he meant it, too.

"I know," Gianni told him, and kissed him again.

Rafaele hummed against his mouth as he did, arching into Gianni's hands as they followed the shape of him, moving over Rafaele's solid shoulders and chest and stroking down over his stomach and thighs. He spread his legs against the sheets, willingly, and broke away from Gianni's mouth long enough to say, "In the drawer on this side."

Gianni couldn't make himself be surprised when the reach over to the bedside table turned up a bottle of oil. "You've been planning for this," he said, turning the discreet little bottle in his fingers.

"Of course." Rafaele smiled at him, lazily. "It seemed like the prudent thing to do."

"I see." Gianni set the bottle down and shifted down the bed. Rafaele made an interrogative noise that turned into a gasp as Gianni knelt between his legs and bent his head to stroke his mouth over Rafaele's cock.

Rafaele moaned his name, low and open, and again as Gianni ran his tongue over him, slow and deliberate, taking him in and savoring the heavy weight of him on his tongue. Gianni watched Rafaele as he moved his mouth over Rafaele's cock, watching the pleasure chasing itself over Rafaele's face and the way Rafaele arched and shifted under his hands, lean and unselfconscious, until he finally drew taut, shuddering apart on a low cry.

Rafaele turned against him when Gianni settled at his side, afterwards. "Mm," he said, sounding distinctly satisfied, "I should have done that a while ago, I think."

"I can't believe you've been so desperate for a bed partner that you've been considering me for it," Gianni returned, lightly.

Rafaele opened his half-closed eyes, the look in them going sharp. "Who said I was the desperate one?" He reached out and touched the place between Gianni's eyebrows. "You're the one who looks like ten years just came off him."

"Was it that bad?" Gianni asked, rather than deny it.

Rafaele's eyes softened. "Yes. Every time you look at the Ninth these days, it gets a little worse."

Gianni rolled onto his back and covered his eyes with his arm. "I can't do anything," he said, admitting it out loud, finally. "This is tearing him apart, and there isnâ€™t a fucking think I can do for him, and—"

Rafaele's arm slid around him, and Rafaele himself was warm against his side. "I know," he said. "Believe me, I know."

"Not like I do," Gianni told him. "And now I can't even trust myself because of it—"

Rafaele's arm tightened around him as his voice broke. "But you can trust me," he said, low and serious. "You're not doing this alone. You have me."

Funny, that it should be the assurance of that offer which finally broke him, but it did. Gianni turned and pressed himself against Rafaele, tucking his face into the curve of Rafaele's throat. "Promise me that you won't let me fuck up because of this," he said, hoarse.

Rafaele's arms slid around him, securely. "I promise," he said.

Gianni closed his eyes, accepting that. "I'm so tired," he admitted, after a moment.

That didn't begin to encompass it all, but Rafaele seemed to understand anyway. "I know," he said, gently, and set a hand in Gianni's hair, stroking it. "But you can rest with me."

Gianni exhaled, slow and stuttering; when he finally began to relax against that promise, Rafaele took his weight without a murmur of protest. "Thank you."

"Any time," Rafaele told him, and held him until he fell asleep.

- end -

An Offer You Can't Refuse

There comes a time in every young man's life when he must seek his fortune. Sawada Iemitsu is off to seek his. Occurs not too long before "Blood Will Tell". Teen+; some implicit, mostly-offscreen violence.

Sawada Iemitsu couldn't remember a time when he hadn't known that he was—or could have been, if he'd wanted to be—the heir to a great mafia empire. It was the family legend, the story that his mother sang him to sleep by and the reason his father made him enroll in Italian lessons after school. That Iemitsu's great-great-grandfather had chosen to leave his Italian empire behind was their family's great regret, and their scapegoat any time something went wrong. They held to it like a talisman, promising each other that if only the First hadn't left Italy so long ago, none of this—a refrigerator that was elderly and had to be coaxed into working regularly, the fact that Tousan's boss wouldn't give him a promotion, Iemitsu's dismissal from the basketball team—would have happened, and life would have been infinitely better.

Iemitsu's teachers didn't get around to logic until late in middle school, but when they finally did, he was able to put his finger on the thing that had always troubled him about their family legend. They wouldn't have been there at all, had the First never left Italy, since they were descended from the son Giotto Vongola had fathered when he took a new wife in Japan.

Such was the power of legend that his family didn't question such things. There was power in having a secret identity that could not be discounted. Iemitsu found it deeply comforting to know that, if he had just wanted to, he could leave all the petty bullshit of his day-to-day life behind, and never have to deal with the demands of cram school again.

And then, the year Iemitsu turned seventeen, a thought occurred to him: Why not?

He did not tell his parents what he intended, since he'd seen with an adolescent's eyes what he hadn't as a child. It was a family talisman to say, "If we were still Vongola, none of this would be happening," but neither his father nor his mother really believed it.

They didn't want to, either. It was better to daydream than to reach out for more.

Iemitsu rejected that with all the scorn a teenager could muster. He pawned some things—his bike, his watch, his stereo system—and hit up all his friends for money that he promised himself he'd repay, and started working his way towards Italy.

The only thing he took with him from home was a copy of his family register.

It took him months to actually reach Italy, and Iemitsu saw parts of the world he'd never imagined he would: ports, mostly, that were filled with shipping containers and the smell of the ocean and grease and the stink of the harbor, plus men who shouted in at least twenty different languages. He saw the sun rise over Dar es Salaam and learned to dance from a woman in Cape Town. He picked up bits of Portuguese in Rio de Janeiro and a social disease in a whorehouse in Havana. Iemitsu decided that the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen was the aurora borealis against ReykjavÃk's night sky, when the sky had been filled with stars so close that he might have reached out a hand and cut himself on them.

Had he been another person, in another life, he might have kept going, because the work and the travel both suited him. The months of labor packed muscle onto his frame and coarsened his hands and his voice. He'd liked the places he'd seen and the people he'd met, mostly, and wouldn't have minded more. But he was Sawada Iemitsu, and he had a goal, one that let him walk out of Messina's harbor with a duffel carried over a shoulder and his head held high, thinking himself a man.

The first person Iemitsu asked about the Vongola and where to find them made a sign that Iemitsu didn't understand before backing away hurriedly. The second person he asked, a lovely young lady who'd been very friendly right up until then, slapped him. Then she hit him with a barrage of Italian so fast that he couldn't even follow it and left him while he was still reeling.

Iemitsu persisted, undeterred, working his way south along Sicily's eastern coast (family tradition and a thousand gangster movies having informed him that this was the place to begin). The reactions were the same wherever he went. Either the name Vongola inspired fear in whomever he asked, or it inspired anger. Sometimes, it did both.

He was reflecting on that curious mixture as he stood in the square of a town whose name he'd neglected to learn, rubbing his cheek and wondering why it should be so, when someone asked, behind him, "And who are you to be asking after the Vongola so freely?"

The voice was light and smooth enough that Iemitsu wasn't sure whether it was male or female. What he was much more certain of was the solid pressure against his ribs, snub-nosed and blunt. "Well, now, why don't we talk about that?" he suggested, with all the confidence eight months of working on freighters and getting in and out of sticky situations could give him.

"You're going to talk, yes," the voice said, and the pressure increased against his ribs. "Walk forward, now. Back to your room. I wouldn't advise trying to get any ideas."

"Who, me?" Iemitsu stepped forward; the gun stayed snug against his ribs.

He seemed to have become invisible; the square was full of people, but their eyes slid past him as if he were no longer there. That was the first point at which Iemitsu began to wonder whether coming to Italy had been a good idea after all.

The voice had advised him not to try anything, but that was clearly out of the question. Iemitsu bided his time until they had climbed the rickety set of stairs up to the little room he was renting, and then whirled around.

His plan had been to disarm the voice and then compel its owner to tell him about the Vongola. It didn't work as smoothly in execution as he'd hoped it would. Instead of letting him twist the gun away, the voice simply sighed, sounding irritated about it. The next thing Iemitsu knew, the world had spun around him, and he was getting splinters in his chin from the rough wooden floor as a knee ground against his kidney. "I told you not to get any ideas," the voice told him, calm and cool, and twisted Iemitsu's arm behind his back until Iemitsu grunted and his eyes watered. "Now, tell me. Who are you to be using our Family's name so easily?"

It was amazing, how he could hear the capital letters when the voice said Family like that, Iemitsu thought, to distract himself from the thought that he was, quite possibly, in a lot of trouble. "Sawada Iemitsu."

"And who might you be when you're at home, Mr. Iemitsu?" the voice inquired.

"The great-great grandson of Giotto Vongola," Iemitsu announced, as calmly as he could manage, given the circumstances.

The pressure on his arm and his kidney increased sharply, till Iemitsu cried out. "That is not a claim you want to make lightly," the voice informed him, gone sharper. "Let's try this again. Who are you? And what do you want with the Vongola?"

"My name is Sawada Iemitsu," he said again, unsteadily, with the uneasy sense that perhaps he could count out his lifespan in minutes, now, rather than years. "I'm the direct descendant of Giotto Vongola. You want my whole family tree?"

The voice twisted his arm tighter still, until Iemitsu was arched taut and panting with the agony of it. "One more time," it said. "And then I'll have to become unpleasant. Who are you?"

"I'm not lying, damn it!" Iemitsu yelped, and took refuge in the only thing he knew. "At the end of his reign, the Vongola's First retired and came to Japan, the home of his Rain. He started a new family there, and—"

"I did tell you," the voice said, sounding faintly regretful about it, and broke his arm.

It was later, though the only way Iemitsu really knew it was through an application of logic. His every nerve throbbed with pain. That had to have taken time to accomplish: hence, it was later. The process had driven most of the pride out of him, till he didn't even mind the hoarse sounds coming from his own throat, or the fact that he had curled in on himself like a child.

Somewhere outside his immediate sight, the voice was speaking to someone on the phone. The short, abrupt exchange of words, one-sided, formed so much background noise for the thrum of blood in Iemitsu's ears. He could make no sense of it, nor did he care to. At length, the voice stopped speaking. Iemitsu got his first glimpse of its physical incarnation when a pair of gleaming leather shoes came to stand in front of his face.

"You're lucky," the voice told him, as its owner crouched next to him. "The Ninth wants a look at you himself."

The words filtered through the buzzing pain, slowly, and resolved into some kind of sense. Iemitsu would have liked to have said something—what?—to them, but could only grunt as a hand wound itself in his hair, lifting his head, and let him get a look at the voice's face.

The last thought Iemitsu had before something rapped against his temple and sent him down into darkness was disbelief that the voice belonged to a pre-pubescent kid.

There was still pain when he came swimming back to consciousness, now with the added layer of a headache that threatened to split his skull open. He was tied to a chair in a room that he didn't recognize and whose fittings were much fancier than the one he'd been renting, and there was a man sitting across from him. He was older, perhaps Tousan's age or a bit more, with streaks of gray running through his mustache and wild eyebrows that shadowed sharp eyes. He was watching Iemitsu. "So," he said, as Iemitsu blinked at him, slow and stupid with the pain. "You're Ietsuna and Yoshinobu's boy."

The pain had burnt out most of his pride, but not all of it; Iemitsu had enough left to be ashamed that the gratitude of finally being believed made his eyes prickle. "Yes, sir," he rasped. "I am."

The man—the Ninth, Iemitsu thought, a dim memory surfacing—overlooked the reaction, which was unspeakably kind of him. "What did you go and do a damn fool thing like coming to Italy for?" he asked instead, gently enough. "If you'd just stayed in Japan, we wouldn't have had to take notice of you."

Iemitsu wet his lips, tasting the blood on them, and didn't bother saying why. He'd told the voice half a dozen times, anyway. "Can't go back, can I?"

"No." The Ninth shook his head, regret shadowing his eyes. "Too many people know of you now, thanks to your complete lack of subtlety."

Iemitsu hung his head as humiliation superseded pain—some of it, anyway. "Dumb of me," he said, slowly.

"Yes, rather." The Ninth's voice was rich with kindness, and no less implacable for it.

Iemitsu raised his head after a moment, determined to meet the Ninth's eyes and see it through. "What happens now?" He had a dizzy, sick suspicion that he already knew.

"I already have an heir," the Ninth told him. "I don't need another. And he doesn't need a war for the succession, or for any of the other Families to get their hands on you."

"Guess that's fair." Iemitsu was proud of how steady he'd managed to keep his voice. "Doesn't leave you many choices, does it?"

"No," the Ninth agreed, calmly, watching him.

Yeah, he'd figured. Iemitsu lifted his chin a fraction higher. "May I ask a favor?"

The Ninth's mouth quirked under his mustache. "Asking is free."

Iemitsu sucked in a breath and grimaced as his ribs creaked in protest. "Let me—" no, not send, that presumed too much "—leave a message for my parents?" Not that he knew what he could say to them, exactly. That he was sorry, perhaps, or that he wished they'd never told him who his great-great grandfather had been.

Something that might have been respect showed in the Ninth's eyes. "You're taking this very calmly."

Maybe he'd expected Iemitsu to beg for his life. "I'd like to piss myself, actually," he confessed. "But that's not going to do me any good." And he had just enough pride left in him not to beg.

The Ninth laughed at that, threw his head back and roared, open and amused. "You're a rare one," he said, when he'd stopped again, and that was definitely respect on his face now. "Seems a waste."

"You should see it from my seat," Iemitsu replied.

That earned him another snort of laughter. "Definitely a waste," the Ninth repeated, studying him. Whatever he saw must have satisfied him, because he nodded, apparently reaching some conclusion. "You have two options," he announced. "One is for me to have you shot, because, as you are now, you are a threat to my Family's stability and its future."

"What's behind door number two?" Iemitsu asked, trying not to let himself hope too very hard.

"You've entered our world," the Ninth told him. There was no trace of laughter in his voice now. "You can't leave it again, so we must find a way for you to exist within it. There is only one way for that to happen that I am willing to permit."

"What is it?"

The Ninth raised an eyebrow. "Not going to agree immediately?"

"Doesn't seem like a good idea." Iemitsu would have liked to have shrugged, but suspected that the pain of doing so wouldn't have made the gesture worth it. "There could be worse things than getting shot."

"Mm. Shooting you would definitely be a waste." The Ninth spread a hand; a massive ring winked at Iemitsu from his finger. "There is an organization. It is of the mafia world. It is separate from the Vongola, though it serves us. Were you to become a member, you would renounce your own right to the Vongola ring forever. You would be bound to our service all your life." He paused, and added, "We are not kind masters. We strive to be good ones, but we are not kind. It is not an easy life, or a safe one. You will be lucky to see your fortieth birthday if you choose it."

"I won't see my next birthday if I don't." Iemitsu felt his lip split again as he offered the Ninth a grin that he didn't quite feel. "It would be you that I'd be serving, then?" he asked, studying the man.

"Yes." The Ninth inclined his head. "And my son after me."

Iemitsu studied him, this man who'd wanted to speak with him and had been willing to offer a stupid boy a second chance. "That," he said, finally, "seems like something I could live with."

The Ninth's smile was faint but unmistakable. "I think I should like to see that," he said, and then called for someone to treat Iemitsu's injuries.

Later, after giving his vows, first to the CEDEF and then to the Ninth, forswearing his claim to the position of the Vongola's boss and promising fealty to the Vongola for the rest of his days, Iemitsu made a third vow, this one private.

The First had retired to Japan for a reason. He had sought out obscurity after his reign, and it had been foolishness of his descendants to keep the dream of lost Vongola glory alive.

If someday he himself had a family, Iemitsu decided, bending to kiss the Ninth's ring as stiff muscles protested the action, he would not tell them of the mafia at all. The First's Japanese legacy could die with him, as he suspected Giotto Vongola had wanted in the first place.

And surely any family he might have would be happier for it.

end

Blood Will Tell

Sometimes one small mistake can lead to an entire avalanche of nasty consequences. Some small divergences from manga canon; a veritable confluence of clusterfuck.

One of the first things Sawada Iemitsu did in his apprenticeship to the Vongola Ninth's outside advisor was bring the Ninth news of the woman who claimed that her son belonged to Timoteo Vongola. It was an act that Iemitsu reflected on later, grimly, deciding that it was the event that colored his entire service to the Vongola.

Sometimes he wondered what would have happened if they'd simply had someone go around to have a quiet word with the woman instead of bringing it to the Ninth's attention. Would things have gone to the hell the way they had later, or would one of Timoteo's actual sons gone on to inherit the position of Vongola Decimo while his own son went ahead, bumbling his way through life, innocent of its darker sides?

Iemitsu couldn't say.

Such speculations were only fit for musing on over a cup of sake, however, because the fact was, when he'd reported news of the woman who'd claimed that Timoteo Vongola had been the one to impregnate her, and that the result was a boy who could produce a Vongola Flame, the Ninth had simply said, "Hm."

That, Iemitsu had already learned, was one of the Ninth's thinking sounds. "If you like, I can go speak to her," Iemitsu offered. "Explain to her why she doesn't want to keep saying these things."

The Ninth made another of his thoughtful noises, and left his desk. He paced the length of his office, slow, deliberate, to stand before the window with his hands clasped behind his back. "Hm," he said again, and then, "I suppose I'll have to see the boy."

"You will, sir?" Iemitsu repeated, cautiously.

Timoteo turned away from the window. "Yes, I think so. Make preparations for it, please."

Iemitsu nodded, and said, "At once, sir," and that was that.

"I take it that you don't approve of this," Timoteo said, thoughtfully, as Gianni maneuvered the car through narrow, twisting streets that were growing increasingly shabby with their slow progress.

"I haven't said a word," Gianni said, turning down an even darker, narrower street.

"You don't have to. I can hear you thinking it from here."

That was as good as permission to speak freely. "I don't think you should be dignifying this woman's claims with your attention," he said, with a quick glance around as he parked the car. There were faces in many of the windows, but few enough people on the street. "She's not stable, Boss. Everyone knows it."

"Even fools and madmen can be right occasionally." Timoteo unbelted himself, and waited for Gianni to signal that it was safe for him to leave the car.

Gianni half-hoped that he wouldn't be able to, that this whole fool's errand was a trap, but his men appeared at either end of the street and gave the all-clear. He sighed and nodded to Timoteo.

They emerged from the car together, both of them stretching and exchanging grimaces. The days of comfortable car rides that didn't leave them with stiff backs and tired joints were already well past them both, and getting older was proving to be an unpleasant business. The street—which could hardly be called that, and was more like an alley than anything else—was filled with rubbish that stirred around their feet. Gianni grimaced again as they turned to the tenement where the woman Bianca Castelli and her son were supposed to live.

One of Gianni's men slipped up the stairs ahead of them, swift and silent. Gianni and Timoteo followed more slowly, until they came to the top floor. The air inside the building was stuffy, filled with the smell of a thousand competing meals. Even in the middle of the day, the air was full of the sounds of babies crying and radios blaring. Somewhere, perhaps a floor down, a man and a woman were arguing.

Gianni did the honors of knocking on the door of 6010, which flaked paint under the brisk rapping. Castelli herself answered the door.

She must have been pretty, once, but the fineness of her features was blurred now. Her hair was tangled, and she was wrapped in a man's faded houserobe. Her feet were bare and dirty, and her eyes darted between them, too fast and bright. "Yes?" she said. Her knuckles were white where they clutched the door.

She showed no sign of recognizing Timoteo Vongola.

Typical, Gianni thought, disgusted in spite of his best intentions otherwise. "The Vongola Ninth is here to see you," he said, quietly, and watched her eyes go wide, terror mixed with wild hope.

"I knew it," she said, like a prayer, clasping her hands under her chin. "Oh, I knew this day would come."

Castelli brought them into the apartment, hands fluttering like trapped birds, and tried to offer them hospitality in between calling for the boy. Timoteo refused her offers, kind but firm, which, given the state of the place, with not a bit of clean floor in sight and surfaces that even looked sticky, was only wise. All the while she stared at Timoteo, eyes burning with devotion, or perhaps vindication.

"No," Timoteo said again, when she offered them wine, still gentle with her, "no wine, thank you. If I could just meet the boy...?"

"Yes," Castelli said, "yes, of course." She edged away from them, backwards, as if reluctant to let Timoteo out of her sight for even a moment. "Xanxus! Xanxus, you stupid brat, where are you?"

The reply that came back from what Gianni assumed was the bedroom was in a boy's clear soprano, but it delivered a series of curses worthy of a sailor. "I was sleeping," he growled when he finally emerged, scowling.

Gianni was close enough to Timoteo to hear the quiet sound Timoteo made, as of recognition, as Castelli reeled the boy in and began petting him, obviously against his will. "There's Mama's beautiful boy," she crooned, smoothing his hair back from a distinctive forehead. "Show your—" she stopped, perhaps thinking better of it "—show the Ninth what you can do, baby."

The woman was canny in her madness, and had clearly passed that canniness down to the boy. His eyes went sharp, fixing on Timoteo, and he held up a hand that wreathed itself in Flame.

Gianni braced himself against the pressure of it, staggered. The boy couldn't be more than ten, but to be able to produce that much anger, so very young...

Afterwards, he could only assume that Timoteo had been thinking something similar, tender-hearted as he was. "Ah, yes," he said, very softly, crossing the room and kneeling, putting his face at Xanxus' level. "That is indeed a Vongola Flame."

Castelli made a sound, releasing her son and covering her mouth as tears began to cut a clean path down her cheeks. "Yes," she said, nearly sobbing the word, "oh, yes."

After that it was a matter of calling for another car to come for her and the boy as she flew around the apartment, gathering up pieces of rubbish that Gianni supposed held personal meaning for her. Xanxus stood, unmoved, watching Timoteo all the while, his back already held straighter and his eyes burning just like his mother's had.

"I want to ride with you," he announced when they came down to the street. (All the windows had faces pressed to them now, watching the drama unfold. It gave Gianni a headache, knowing that this news was already all over the country.)

"Of course," Timoteo told him, easy about it.

Gianni bit his lip; he would have to talk to Timoteo later.

Later didn't happen until well after they'd returned home and Timoteo had personally seen Castelli and her son installed in a set of rooms in the private wing of the house, and had told them to direct the household staff to provide anything they required. Xanxus accept all this with a stony expression, as if it were only their due. Castelli herself was already calling for a drink—this early in the day!—and Gianni was hard-put to suppress his shudder.

Timoteo didn't dismiss him, so Gianni followed him to his private study, where Timoteo sank into the chair behind his desk and sighed. After a moment, he looked up at Gianni and smiled. "Let's have it, then."

"Are you out of your ever-loving mind?" Gianni asked, since dire catastrophes required extreme measures. "That boy can't possibly be your son."

Timoteo laughed, though the sound was wry. "Of course he isn't my son. Did I ever say he was?"

"No, you had the good sense not to do that much, thank God." Gianni threw himself down into his customary chair, scowling. "That won't matter one bit now that you've taken him in, though. You know everyone will assume that he's your—" He stopped short, unwilling to say it.

"My bastard? Yes." Timoteo's expression turned distant. "Got, no doubt, during my wife's final illness or shortly thereafter, when my manly needs overwhelmed my good sense. It's a very tidy story, isn't it?"

"Oh, very." Gianni raked his hands through his hair. "Why the hell are you letting yourself play into it?"

"He's very clearly of the Vongola line," Timoteo said, brisk. "I suspect from one of the Second's, actually. The boy favors him, and that one had at least half a dozen bastards that we know of, and probably a few more besides."

That was fair enough, but— "You could have said so, and not let the world assume that he was yours." The world would, of course, but at least it would save some of Timoteo's face among those who knew him best.

Timoteo sighed. "Yes, of course I could have. But his Flame, Gianni... To be that young, and that angry..."

So that was how it was. Arguing with him was a lost cause when he'd made up his mind to right some wrong. "You can't adopt every fatherless boy out there."

Timoteo's smile was quick. "No. But I can adopt this one."

The crash was what seized Rafaele's attention, but the shriek and the bellow which followed turned his steps away from the main hallway to investigate. That didn't take long; a sobbing housemaid hurtled past him, her face white, as Xanxus emerged from his room, expression screwed up with anger. "Don't fuck it up again, you stupid little sl—"

He stopped short when he saw Rafaele standing there.

"Now, what's all this?" Rafaele asked, after a quick breath to calm himself.

Xanxus took a moment to answer; his struggle with the decision whether he was required to answer Rafaele was clear on his face. "My lunch was cold."

"How unfortunate," Rafaele said, as mildly as he could manage. "Was it worth screaming for? Or—" He craned his head; yes, it was as he'd expected. "—throwing the whole thing at the wall?"

"I was aiming at her," Xanxus said, with the simplicity of honesty. "But she ducked."

"You were—you do realize that you could have hurt her, don't you?" Rafaele asked, with what he felt was really quite admirable restraint.

"It wouldn't have," Xanxus said, composedly. "If the soup had been hot, then I wouldn't have had to get angry."

Ice slid down Rafaele's spine at the boy's calm. "It wasn't worth getting angry about in the first place."

Xanxus' eyes went flat and cold. "You're not my father," he said. "You can't tell me what to do." His hands flexed, and the air pressure changed with the first oppressive edges of his Flame dancing along his fingers.

"No," Rafaele said, after a measured moment. "I suppose I can't. But I can tell your father what it is you've done." This time, he added silently. Xanxus really was a singularly unpleasant boy. "Perhaps you'd better come with me," he added, turning away, careful not to let Xanxus entirely out of his sight.

"I'm not going to," Xanxus said. "You can't make me." His chin lifted; what should have looked like a twelve-year-old's petulance looked more like an adult's contempt. "You know he won't do anything, anyway. I deserve the best."

Rafaele lost the struggle with himself, although, if he were honest, he wasn't trying very hard. "The best is a privilege you need to earn," he said.

"Bullshit." Xanxus smirked. "Run along and tell the old man I said so, and see what he says. You'll see."

"Mm. I think I've known the Ninth a little longer than you." Rafaele stopped himself and drew a breath. When had he sunk so low that he'd argue with a child? "You may want to clean that soup up before it stains."

Xanxus' lip curled, but he turned on his heel. As Rafaele started downstairs for the Ninth's study, he heard the boy pick up the house phone and call for a servant to come clean up the mess.

He had to wait to speak with the Ninth, who was closeted with Gianni, Federico, Maria, and Fedele—discussing negotiations with the Barassi, Rafaele suspected. Given Maria's predatory smile when the conference let out, he supposed they must have decided to get tough with the Barassi—she loved it when she got to intimidate other Families into behaving.

The other three remained, even after the Ninth called him in, and listened to the story too. Gianni stayed impassive through the whole thing, and Fedele tried to mimic his mentor's stoic expression, but was at least two decades too young to master the effect. Federico, on the other hand, didn't bother disguise his disdain for his adopted brother's behavior.

The Ninth shook his head after Rafaele had finished. "That's the third time this month. And he was so good last month."

"For a relative value of good," Federico said. "Dad, you've got to do something with him before we lose all our help."

"Boarding school, perhaps," Gianni suggested. "Some place that emphasizes discipline."

"I'm not going to send Xanxus away." The Ninth's voice had just enough edge to it to make clear that the suggestion should not be made again. "I'll speak to him."

"Because that does so much good," Federico grumbled, and then held up his hands when his father frowned. "You're the Boss, Dad, and he's your... project."

"And your brother now," the Ninth said.

Federico's mouth quirked. "So they tell me," he said, dry. "It's hard enough with Enrico and Massimo. Couldn't you have brought us a cute little sister to spoil instead of Xanxus? It's difficult to be brotherly to a porcupine."

Rafaele hid a smile as Federico defused his father's irritation; he was coming along nicely, that one. It was no wonder the Ninth favored him most of his three sons. Four sons, now. "I'll be on my way," he said, since he'd discharged his duty to that poor girl.

"So will I," Federico said, standing. "Keep an eye out for that little sister, Dad. Come on, Fedele."

The Ninth's laughter followed the three of them out.

"Boarding school," Federico said, thoughtfully, once they were safely away. "I like that idea. Pity it won't ever happen."

Fedele snorted. "Hard to make up for lost time at a boarding school."

Rafaele raised an eyebrow; Michele's boy had sharp eyes on him.

"Pity," Federico said again, and shook his head. "I keep thinking that one of these days the kid's got to settle down. Then I remember that we're about to hit the teenage years and I want to go get myself a stiff drink."

"Don't go borrowing too much trouble," Rafaele said. "He's your brother, not your son. Leave that headache to your father."

Federico's smile was bright. "I think I will, at that." He clapped Fedele on the shoulder. "Come on, let's head down to the range. I want a rematch after yesterday."

"Ready to be embarrassed again so soon?" Fedele grinned. "You're a glutton for punishment these days."

"Big talk, little man," Federico retorted, and scrubbed his hand through Fedele's curly hair. "I have a bottle of wine that says I'll win this match."

"You're on, boss," Fedele said, and they went off, laughing.

Rafaele watched them go, smiling. Perhaps there wasn't any helping Xanxus, but at least the Ninth's youngest made up for him.

Iemitsu was running late and knew it, but when he fetched up against the knot of the Ninth's sons—who were supposed to be at the same meeting he was later for—he couldn't help stopping, with a frisson of relief. Best to be late in company, he decided, and the higher the rank of that company, the better. He slowed to a saunter, and insinuated himself at the edge of the group.

The cause of their delay came clear at once. Xanxus was glaring at his adoptive brothers, expression as mutinous as only a fifteen-year-old's could be. "Make me," he said, jaw jutting out.

His brothers exchanged nearly identical exasperated glances with each other. "Father said we were all supposed to attend," Enrico pointed out, with all the authority of the eldest brother, as if that appeal to the Ninth's desires was likely to sway Xanxus.

"Then let the old man make me," Xanxus grunted, and tried to push his way past them.

Massimo caught his arm; of the three of them, he came closest to matching Xanxus' budding strength. "That's no way to talk about Father, you little punk."

"Ask me how much I don't care," Xanxus retorted, twisting out of his grip, though not without some effort.

Before he could storm off, Federico gave it a shot. "Xanxus, it's really time you started attending these meetings. You're part of our Family. You should know how it's run."

Xanxus stopped, arrested, however briefly. Then he shook his head, snorting. "Fuck that," he announced, despite his brief moment to consider the argument. "I have plans for my day. And they don't involve listening to a pack of old men arguing with each other."

He broke free of them, stalking off, and they let him go. After a moment, Massimo asked, wistfully, "Do you think that excuse would work for me, too?"

"Your name Xanxus?" Enrico asked. "No? Then yeah, I'm guessing not. God, he's such a little ba—"

"You know Dad doesn't like to hear him called that," Federico said, mildly enough, and checked his watch. "Doesn't like it when we're late, either," he said, grimacing.

"Shit," Massimo grunted, and they moved off together, at a brisk pace. He glanced at Iemitsu as he fell in with them. "What's your excuse?"

"Up late on the phone with Japan," Iemitsu said, rueful.

"Where 'Japan' means his lovely Nana," Enrico sing-songed, grinning, and his brothers laughed. "And how is Japan these days?"

"Lovely." Iemitsu shrugged at them, perfectly aware that he was grinning like a fool and not caring in the slightest.

"When's the wedding, again?" Federico smiled at him. "In the spring, right?"

"May," Iemitsu told him, grinning harder.

"Not soon enough, eh?" Enrico asked, nudging his ribs.

They were upon the room where the Ninth held his business meetings, though. Iemitsu had no chance to do more than shrug at him before they all schooled their expressions and filed in.

"Ah," the Ninth said, from his seat at the head of the table. "So glad to see that you could join us this morning, gentlemen."

"Sorry, Father," Federico said, meekly. "We were trying to persuade Xanxus to join us."

"Emphasis on the 'trying'," Massimo muttered, under his breath, while Iemitsu was grateful to Federico for including him in that 'we'. "Not so much with the succeeding."

It was a good excuse, though; some of the iron in the Ninth's expression unbent itself. "I see," he said. "Sit down. We've delayed this meeting long enough."

Iemitsu slid into his seat next to Guiseppe with a sigh, and tore his thoughts away from lovely Japan in order to turn them to the Vongola's business.

Piero'd had the teaching of all the Ninth's sons, insofar as fighting and self-defense had gone. He'd been the one who'd trained Enrico to be able to shoot without flinching and pulling the shot wide. He'd also been the one who'd seen that Massimo would only ever be a passable shot but was a demon with a set of throwing knives. He'd coaxed (and then berated) Federico into paying attention to the martial side of being a Vongola, when it had become clear who the Boss was looking at to be the Tenth.

He'd had the teaching of all the Boss's sons, but of them, Xanxus was by far his best pupil, for all that he hadn't come to Piero until he was ten years old. The boy, who was sullen with every other Guardian—or so Piero had heard from his brother and from the rest of them—seized upon the things Piero had to teach him, from how to disassemble and care for a gun to the places where the human body was most vulnerable to a quick, sharp blow. He was a pupil to do any teacher proud: a quick study at ten, and a competent shot by twelve. He began a growth spurt at fourteen and stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Piero by sixteen, which was the first time he beat Piero in a hand-to-hand match.

When Piero had gotten his breath back, he rolled to his feet. "Not bad," he told Xanxus, who was giving him a fiercely delighted smile, one of the ones that showed all his teeth. "When you get done growing, there isn't going to be anyone stronger than you."

"Of course not," Xanxus said, as if it were only his due. "Come on, old man. Let's go again."

Piero was happy to oblige him. Let the others fret about the boy all they liked—what he liked was that Xanxus knew the value of strength the way his brothers never had.

By rights, the duty should have belonged to the Ninth, but he and Gianni and Maria were abroad, negotiating a trade agreement in Moscow. That left it to either him, Michele, or Rafaele to do it—and Rafaele's dislike of Xanxus was years-established at this point. In the end, Paolo had flipped a coin with Michele and lost the toss.

That left him standing outside Xanxus' rooms, knocking loudly and wondering where on earth the boy was. All the intelligence they had said that he was on the premises, but he hadn't answered the repeated telephone calls—not the one at nine p.m, or the more urgent calls at midnight, then two, or the final, most urgent call, just an hour ago at four.

The door jerked open, and Xanxus glared at him, ferocious. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

"We've been trying to reach you all night," Paolo said, pointedly ignoring the fact that the boy—not a boy, really, he was seventeen, wasn't he?—was naked. "May I come in? I'm afraid there's something I need to tell you."

"So tell me," Xanxus growled, scratching his stomach.

"This isn't really the kind of thing—"

"Just fucking spit it out," Xanxus snapped. "I'm getting cold standing here."

"Perhaps if you'd put something on, that wouldn't be a problem," Paolo retorted. Then he composed himself; now wasn't the time. "Are you quite sure—"

Wrath crackled around Xanxus' hands. "Tell me or I'll beat it out of you," he said, low and vicious.

For a moment, Paolo was tempted, if only because an outright attack on one of his Guardians might force Timoteo into doing something with the boy. Then he dismissed the idea. "Your mother," he said, quietly. "She went into her final decline last night. I'm afraid she passed away about an hour ago."

"That it?"

Paolo had prepared himself for a number of possible responses, but he hadn't expected that tone of disinterest. "I'm very sorry."

"You should be," Xanxus said. "Waking a guy up at five in the morning for that. Christ." He turned away.

"She called for you till the last," Paolo said, harshly, wanting to punch through that chilly indifference. "She wanted to see you one last time. She died promising the doctors you'd be there any minute."

Xanxus looked back at him, mouth turned up in a way that was hardly a smile. "Yeah? Guess that's what happens to you when you drink too much. You got anything else, or can I get back to bed?"

"Nothing else," Paolo said, biting the words out with more calm than he felt.

Xanxus slammed the door on him. After a moment, Paolo turned away from it to go find someone who would make the funeral arrangements.

Clearly Xanxus wasn't going to do it himself.

It was a good day up until that point. The sun had shone through the ceremony, but the breeze had been just balmy enough to keep things comfortable, and the wedding had gone off without a single bobble. All his children had come to see their oldest brother married, and their mothers had even (mostly) agreed to suspend hostilities for the occasion.

All told, Michele couldn't have asked to be happier, and told Fedele's little bride Evelina as much when he claimed his dance with her. She blushed prettily and thanked him when he surrendered her back to Fedele at the close of his dance. Michele just grinned at her and elbowed his son in the ribs, and grinned harder when it didn't even begin to budge the dazedly happy grin on Fedele's face.

Perhaps the boy had known what he was about after all, waiting this long to get married.

Michele congratulated them again, and moved off the dance floor to find himself a bit of refreshment. His meandering path towards the bar required several stops—once to speak with the Ninth, who looked as proud of his godson's marriage as he had over his own sons' marriages. He had to stop again to accept congratulations from Paolo and a vigorous round of back-slappings from Piero. Then he had to dodge lovely Giulia, who didn't seem to quite grasp the notion of "suspended hostilities" after all.

It was when he'd ducked behind the stand of potted palms to hide from her that he became aware of the altercation taking place in the little nook to his left. Michele didn't consider himself the type to eavesdrop—was, in fact, quite bad at it, since he never had managed the trick of being still long enough to hear anything interesting. He couldn't help overhearing the argument, though, especially when their voices rose sharply and the gist of the argument came clear in the woman's, "No, I said no—" and the man's impatient, "Come on."

Michele sighed, good mood dimmed, and went to interfere. "Is everything all right over here?" he asked, pleasantly, to the back of the boor in question. The woman—well, the girl—flashed him a grateful look over her would-be suitor's shoulder.

That earned him a growled, "Fuck off," and Michele had to bite back a groan. He recognized that voice.

"Ah, Xanxus. Just the fellow I was looking for." He took his life in his hands and brought a hand down on the boy's nape, pulling him off the girl, who immediately seized her chance to escape and eeled away from Xanxus. "Come, walk with me."

He was no mountain like Piero or Paolo, but he managed to keep his grip on Xanxus all the same, at least until he'd marched the boy outside. "Let go of me," Xanxus snarled, and finally wrenched free of him on the terrace.

"Mm," Michele said, looking him over. "You're what, seventeen now?"

Xanxus just glared at him, death in his eyes. "Eighteen."

"Right," Michele said, blithely enough, but keeping a wary eye on him. "Now, as I remember, girls can be difficult at that age—" It was a lie, but a small one, in service to a good cause. "—But if you have to force them, you're doing everything all wrong."

Xanxus growled at him. "She didn't have any business saying no to me."

Michele forgot to smile, and just stared at him. "The hell she didn't," he managed, after a moment. "She has every right to say no if she likes."

"Not to the Vongola," Xanxus said, stubborn, and Michele felt his blood run cold at the solid conviction in his eyes.

"Yes, even to the Vongola," he said, sharply. "Being the Vongola means that you have a responsibility to your people. You don't rule them because you dominate them. You rule them because they trust you to. And even then, they still have their rights."

It was hopeless, and he knew it before he'd even opened his mouth. Xanxus barely let him finish before rolling his eyes. "Whatever. Are we done here?"

Michele nodded, short and annoyed. "I suppose so. Leave the girls alone," he added, sharp. "I'll be watching you."

Xanxus looked him over and sneered, and the pushed his way past Michele, heading back inside to the reception.

Michele looked up at the sky and took a long breath, making a note to himself to speak to the Ninth later. Someone had better take the boy in hand, and soon. His sense of what it meant to be one of the Vongola was completely askew.

"You have a problem," Maria said, without any preliminaries, as she let herself into the Ninth's office.

As usual, she had to wait for them to catch up with her. "Which of us?" the Ninth asked, while his son and Gianni blinked at her.

"You," she said, leveling her finger at him. "But you're going to have this problem too," she told Federico. "Especially if that old fool you call a father doesn't get this cleared up soon."

"I can't do that if you don't tell me what it is," the Ninth said, too cheerful by half.

He ought to have known better by this point.

"Xanxus," Maria said, and folded her arms. The smile slid off the Ninth's face.

"What's he done this time?" Federico groaned.

"Nothing. Yet." Maria held up her hand for them to wait while she finished. "I don't know who you think you're planning on leaving all this to when they cart you out of here in a pine box, but I can tell you that everyone sure seems to think that it's going to be Xanxus. Especially Xanxus himself. Twenty years old and he's the lord of creation. If you don't want to cause yourself a headache later on, you'll set him straight now."

The Ninth held up a hand before either Gianni or Federico could say anything. "You're quite sure of this?"

"Don't be an idiot. Would I have told you otherwise?" she asked.

The Ninth glanced at his son. "You see what you might have to look forward to from the Cloud?"

"I can hardly wait," Federico said, drily.

"This isn't a laughing matter," Gianni said, quietly; well, he always had been a sensible one. His shadow Fedele seemed to be listening, too. Good. "Xanxus does have his supporters. And you do seem to favor him outrageously."

"Would you like to add 'I told you so' to that?" the Ninth returned.

"It hardly seems necessary," Gianni murmured.

The Ninth sighed, fingers smoothing over the mustache that had finally finished going grey. "I'll have to speak with him." He looked at Federico. "You may have a fight on your hands, my boy. I doubt he'll serve you, else."

At least Federico had the wisdom to look sensibly nervous at the thought. "I'll do what I have to, if it's for the Family."

"Of course you will," Maria said, and directed her attention back to the Ninth. "Do it soon," she told him. "You can't afford to wait."

"I," the Ninth said, easing himself down into his seat after the Tomasso delegation had finally been placated and shown out, "am getting too damn old for this. I should retire."

"Bite your tongue, Dad," Federico said, with a tired grin, and hooked a finger in the knot of his tie, loosening it. "If you retire now, who's going to deal with the Tomasso?"

"Not me," the Ninth said, with great feeling. "That's the whole point." He glanced past his son to Iemitsu. "Still think it's an honor and a privilege to be the outside advisor?"

"Of course, sir," Iemitsu told him, keeping his face straight. Then he added, "It's just a big damn pain in the ass, too."

They all laughed, except for Maria, but even she smiled, just a bit. "You're not wrong there," the Ninth said, with a rueful smile. "The whole thing's a pain in the ass. But once we finish getting the Tomasso put to bed, you'll have some time to go visit that little family of yours."

Iemitsu ducked his head, trying not to grin too hard at the thought. "Thank you, sir."

"Perhaps I'll go with you," the Ninth mused, and his Guardians exchanged glances. "I understand that Japan is a fairly traditional retirement destination."

Federico looked up, entire posture gone still in the process of shrugging off his jacket. "Dad?"

The Ninth looked back at him, mouth quirking under his mustache. "What?"

They all watched as Federico slipped out of his jacket, and hung it over the back of his chair before he spoke, carefully light. "If you're not careful, we're going to take you at your word there, and boot you out the door."

"And why shouldn't you take me seriously?" The Ninth leaned back in his chair. "You're as old as I was when your grandmother retired. It's time I found myself a beach somewhere and spent my dotage basking, don't you think?"

"Oh, that sounds wonderful," Michele sighed, as Federico and Fedele both goggled at the Ninth. "Can there be umbrella drinks, too? I think there needs to be umbrella drinks." He grinned. "And pretty girls to serve them to us."

"I don't believe we were invited along," Rafaele said, dry as dust, but Iemitsu thought he looked like he regretted it. Even Paolo looked thoughtful about the prospect.

"Why not?" the Ninth asked, with a grin. "Umbrella drinks for all of us, and we can let the kids get on with the business of running this place." He glanced at his son. "If they're ready for it."

Federico glanced at Fedele, who shrugged. "Up to you, Boss," he said. "You know I'll go wherever you do."

"Never doubted it for a moment," Federico told him, and looked at his father. "I'm as ready as anyone can be, Father. If you're ready to step down, then I'm ready to take your place."

"Good, good." Timoteo nodded. "After we finish with the Tomasso, then. We'll start the transfer of power after all that is taken care of." He brought his hands together. "Until then, I think a bottle of wine will have to serve us in the place of the umbrella drinks. Someone ring for that, would you?"

Fedele leaped to do as the Ninth had requested as the rest of them laughed and crowded around Federico to offer him their congratulations and advice.

Afterwards, Iemitsu always wondered that none of them, not even him, had thought to wonder how Xanxus would take the news of his adopted brother's impending elevation to the position of the Tenth. In retrospect, it was an unforgivable oversight.

Michele, of all his Guardians, stayed closest to him during the hideous four days when no one knew where Federico, his third son, his successor-to-be, had disappeared to. When Timoteo looked at him, Michele's tight, anxious expression, all his characteristic energy and good humor absent, felt like looking into a mirror. Federico wasn't the only one who'd gone missing, after all. Fedele had been with him when he'd gone missing, as could only be expected of Federico's right hand.

"I hate the waiting," Michele said to him, on the second day, "but God knows I'm not sure I want it to end."

Timoteo knew precisely what he meant. As the hours ticked past, with no word from Federico and no demands from the Vongola's enemies, the ones who'd be delighted to use this lever against him, it became more and more difficult to hold on to hope, especially when the eyes of his people turned bleak, and then refused to meet his at all.

Timoteo waited, and hoped against all expectation of hope, and prayed, while Michele kept vigil with him, looking suddenly old, motionless except for the unceasing movement of the beads through his fingers and the prayers on his lips. Gianni stepped in Timoteo's place while they waited, and young Iemitsu too, handling the Vongola's business as well as Timoteo had ever managed to do.The rest of his Guardians worked tirelessly, searching for their lost nephews-by-proxy.

Enrico and Massimo and their families stayed where the Vongola's footsoldiers could watch over them. Timoteo tried to look past the calculation in their faces, the way they looked each other with the weight of a shifting landscape in their eyes.

Of Xanxus he saw very little at all.

They sent Rafaele with the news.

He let himself into the south study quietly, shutting the door behind himself gently, as if too loud a noise would cause injury. Timoteo had been standing by the window, and turned at the first sound of the latch.

He could tell by the bowed line of Rafaele's shoulders that there was news, and that it wasn't good. "Rafaele," he said, softly.

His Rain wouldn't meet his eyes as he crossed the room, feet soundless on the thick pile of the carpet. He knelt, and pressed his forehead against the back of Timoteo's hand. "Boss," he said, very softly.

"Tell me," Timoteo said, watching the convulsive way Michele's hands tightened on his rosary.

"I'm so sorry, Boss," Rafaele said, voice full of regret. "We'll find who did this to him."

"Fedele?" Michele said, hoarse, while Timoteo closed his eyes against the hurt of knowing for sure.

"No sign yet," Rafaele said softly. "We haven't stopped looking."

"He can't be far," Michele said, voice gone thin and grey. "He wouldn't have let that happen."

No, he wouldn't have, because Michele had named his son well. Timoteo opened his eyes. "What do you know?" he asked, when he thought he could bear it.

"Not... very much." Rafaele hesitated, and climbed to his feet, grunting with it. He looked aside from both of them. "There's—not very much left. Bone, mostly. It took dental records to make the identification." He paused, swallowed. "Whoever did this... used fire to cover their tracks."

Fire. As Michele's head came up from his rosary, Timoteo said, "I see."

"Fire," Michele repeated, softly. "Flame. Boss—"

"I know." Timoteo turned away from his two Guardians and the looks in their eyes. "I know."

"Surely not," Rafaele said. "His own brother—"

"Why not?" Timoteo asked, hearing the detachment in his own voice. "It's a time-honored tradition. My own mother was quite ruthless with my uncles, remember?" And she had warned him to be careful with his own children, to boot. Why hadn't he listened? "Oh, my boy," he said, softly. "My boy, my boy..."

Even he wasn't quite sure which of his sons he meant.

They found Fedele not long after they'd dispatched someone to the main house to tell the Ninth about Federico. Paolo had expected as much.

Fedele was still breathing, which he hadn't expected at all.

No one had, actually, and it took a moment of staring at the mess of the man—bloody, unconscious, gasping for breath—for Paolo's search party to decide what to do and how to react, when it was clear from the expressions on everyone's faces that everyone was wondering how Fedele had managed to survive when Federico had not.

Paolo broke free of his paralysis first. "Vito, start the first aid," he barked. "Don't let him die on us now. He's the only witness we've got."

Vito sprang forward to do as ordered; he was field-trained and their best medic, and Paolo had selected him when hoping against sense and reason that they would find Federico alive. If anyone could keep Fedele alive just a little longer, Vito would be the one to do it.

"Someone get an ambulance and make sure the hospital is ready for us," Paolo continued; Franco was already peeling away from them, running for the cars and civilization at a dead sprint. "Get word to the Ninth and the Sun!" Paolo called after him, and Franco raised a hand to indicate that he had heard.

"Sir." Vito's strained voice interrupted him before he could give any more orders. Paolo turned to see that the man was looking up from where he was kneeling over Fedele.

The bottom dropped out of Paolo's stomach; surely the boy hadn't lasted for four days only to die now— "What?"

"He's trying to say something," Vito said, slow, face gone shuttered and still. "You should hear."

Paolo dropped to his knees next to Fedele, grunting at the ache of them, and bent close. The hiss and rattle of Fedele's gasps for breath didn't make sense, not at first, and Paolo frowned. "I don't—" he began, and then stopped as the sibilants resolved into a word—a name.

"Xanxus," Fedele said, each rasped syllable broken by a gasp for breath. "Xanxus has... the boss. Got to stop him. Got to..." He coughed, deep and wet, and the only thing Paolo could make out of the rest was Federico's name.

"Shh," Paolo told him. "We have Federico already." It was the kindest thing he could think of to tell the boy.

Fedele stared up at him, eyes fever-bright and burning. "Alive...?" he rasped, flailing a hand and fisting it in Paolo's coat.

"Shh," Paolo hushed him again, wrapping his hands around Fedele's and gripping it. "Save your strength. You're going to need it."

Federico had picked well when he'd chosen his right hand; Fedele made a sound, low and raw, and closed his eyes. "No..."

There wasn't anything to say to that, so Paolo gripped his hand and stayed by him until the team of doctors came through the trees for him.

Gianni brought the report to the Ninth, carrying it from the hospital where Fedele was struggling with his injuries and infections and demons. "He's awake again," he announced, when he'd let himself into the Ninth's study and had shut the door behind him.

The Ninth didn't move from where he sat, hunched and exhausted, at his desk.

Gianni placed himself on the carpet before the Ninth's desk, and drew a breath to steel himself for the report. "Fedele is willing to testify that he and Federico were lured away from the Vongola house by Xanxus, and were ambushed by him in a secluded location near where we found them. Fedele says he went down fighting Xanxus, and does not know precisely what happened to Federico, but will swear to it that Xanxus and Federico were fighting each other before he lost consciousness." Gianni paused, and took another breath. "He insists that Xanxus shot first. Without provocation."

The Ninth moved, slowly, passing a hand over his face; he seemed to have aged ten years in the past five days. "Yes. I had... thought that would have been the way of it." He sounded exhausted. Resigned.

"What are your orders?" Gianni asked, when the Ninth didn't say anything else.

The Ninth turned his chair away from him, staring out the window over the gardens. "It is traditional for a Family's heirs to fight each other for the position," he said, when he finally spoke. "Especially when there are multiple strong candidates."

"Xanxus isn't a candidate, Boss," Gianni told him, after sucking in his breath sharply. "He's not your son by blood. He's not legitimate."

"No. No, not technically. But he has the fire for it. The strength for it." The Ninth fell silent again. "One must always think of what will be best for the Family."

"Whatever that may be, it isn't Xanxus," Gianni told him, hearing the harshness in his own voice and hating the necessity of it. "Xanxus doesn't give a damn about the Family. All he cares about is what the Family will do for him."

"And yet that may be all that is necessary." The Ninth's voice was cool, remote—clinical right down to the heart of it. "He has enough of an instinct for self-preservation to remove Federico. He isn't stupid at all. If he becomes the Tenth, he will have to hold the Family together in order to make it serve his desires. In the end, that's all it really takes."

"Boss..." Gianni stopped, and drew a deep breath. "Timoteo. Is that what you want the Vongola to become?"

"No, of course it isn't." The Ninth looked at him, eyes dark and full of pain. "But I wonder if it's something I have a choice in, now?"

"There's always a choice," Gianni said, low. "You know that as well as I do. The question isn't that. It's whether we have the courage to make it."

The Ninth looked away again. "No," he said. "The time to make that choice is past. And because I chose wrongly, Federico has paid for it."

"But Xanxus, Boss," Gianni said, hands knotting at his sides. "You can't leave the Vongola to him. Enrico and Massimo don't have the fire, true, but they're still better than Xanxus. I'm telling you this as your Mist, as your right hand, and as your friend. Don't do this to our Family. Please." When that didn't seem like it was reaching the Ninth, he forced himself to add, "For the sake of your son's memory, if for no other reason."

Judging by the sound the Ninth made, he could have shot the man and hurt him less. Gianni held his ground, and kept his gaze steady, hating himself for it, and after a moment, the Ninth looked away. "Tell him," the Ninth said, low and harsh. "Tell him why he won't be the Tenth, no matter how many of his brothers he kills."

Gianni exhaled, carefully, and bowed as low as he could manage. "Yes, Boss," he said, quietly. "Thank you. For the sake of our Family."

"Leave me," the Ninth said, turning away from him.

Gianni swallowed hard, and let himself out.

"Ready?" Gianni asked, as they stood outside the door to Xanxus' rooms.

"No," Rafaele told him, frank about it since there was no way of being ready for this. He expected that Xanxus probably wouldn't attack them, not here in the heart of the Vongola mansion, with most of the other Guardians present as well, but he almost welcomed him to try, just so they'd have the excuse. "Let's get this over with."

Gianni snorted at him, shifted the papers he carried to his off hand, and knocked.

Xanxus didn't answer; instead, a girl came shuffling to the door, barely decent, and that only because the man's shirt she wore came down to her thighs. She blushed to see them standing there, which was something, anyway. "Yes?" she asked, uncertainly, brushing messy hair out of her eyes.

"We're here to see Xanxus," Gianni said, kindly enough. "Tell him that it's Family business."

"Oh," she said, sleepy eyes going wide, and held the door open for them. "I'll just—if you'll come in—I'll go wake him?"

"If you would, please," Rafaele murmured, as she ushered them into the sitting room of Xanxus' suite.

"It's going on eleven in the morning," Gianni muttered to him, as they stood and waited. "Honestly."

"It's nothing unusual for him, I gather," Rafaele returned, easily enough, despite his own disapproval. Perhaps it was the boy's age, though, and because of the pretty creature who'd answered the door, and not any more sinister motive.

The girl came creeping out of the suite's inner rooms after a few minutes, head bowed and clothes messy enough to indicate a hurried dressing, and let herself out without a word. Xanxus kept them waiting several minutes more, and when he finally appeared, he was freshly showered and wearing an impeccable suit.

Rafaele doubted that he'd taken such care with his appearance out of any respect for their business.

"Well?" Xanxus said, after he'd cast himself into the massive, ornate arm chair that dominated the room. "What do you want?" He smirked up at them, as if daring them to say anything about his attitude.

"Fedele Rizzo has been found," Gianni said, voice chilly and professional. "He has indicated that he and Federico Vongola were attacked by you, wholly without provocation."

Xanxus' expression flickered, just briefly, uneasiness crossing it, before he shrugged. "So what?"

"The forensic evidence that we've recovered from Federico's body indicates that the flames used to kill him were not the ordinary kind," Gianni continued, still dry and relentless—what Rafaele privately thought of as his courtroom voice, the one Gianni adopted to execute difficult Family business. "As all three other Sky Flame users within the Vongola are accounted for, and the Sky is itself a fairly rare attribute, it seems clear from the evidence that you were the one who killed Federico Vongola."

Xanxus had gotten a good grip on his face by this point, and the only thing that he showed now was lazy indifference. "So what?" he said, again. "He was in my way."

"As it so happens, he was not," Gianni said, calmly, and Rafaele held himself ready, keeping a wary eye on Xanxus as Gianni gestured with his sheaf of papers.

Uncertainty crossed Xanxus' face again. "What the fuck does that mean?" he demanded, after a moment. "The old man was all set to retire and let him take over, wasn't he?"

"Of course he was," Gianni said. "Federico actually was his son, after all. You are merely his adopted son."

Xanxus stared at them, eyes gone dark and opaque. "Bullshit." He raised a hand, Flame and wrath wrapped around it, oppressively heavy. "He said it himself. This is a Vongola Flame."

"While it is true that the Sky Flame is most commonly found in the Vongola Family, it is not unheard of in other Families," Gianni carried on, each word precise in the face of Xanxus' crackling Flame. "The Giglio Nero are known to possess it, and we have reports that the young Cavallone does as well."

"The old man said it himself," Xanxus insisted, fierce. "He said that this is the Vongola Flame. He said that I was his son."

"He said no such thing," Gianni said, contradicting him in the flattest tones possible. "I was there, if you'll recall, and the only thing that he said was that the Flame appeared to be a Vongola Flame. You and your mother inferred the rest."

Xanxus stared at them for a long moment, and then laughed, short and ugly. "So what?" he demanded. "You don't have any proof that I'm not, and I have the Flame. What else matters?"

Rafaele didn't have to be watching Gianni to know that he was raising his eyebrows in that infuriatingly superior way he had. "Proof?" Gianni repeated, tone deceptively mild, and Rafaele kept a close watch on Xanxus, who hadn't sat in on enough of the Vongola's business meetings to know how dangerous that tone was. "I have copies here of four paternity tests, for you and your adoptive brothers. Yours is the only one that turns up negative. You are not now, nor have you ever been, Timoteo Vongola's son, except in the adoptive sense and in his patience with your arrogance in assuming that you were."

"You're lying," Xanxus said, low and vicious, both hands wreathed in Flame and desperation. "You've never liked me, and now that that little shit Federico is dead, you're coming up with lies to keep me from my rightful place."

"Please." Gianni drawled the word out, sounding bored. "You're dealing with the right hand of the Vongola, boy. Give me some credit for knowing my business." He dropped the sheaf of papers on the low table before Xanxus. "I have known the Ninth all his life. While your mother was conceiving you, he was sitting in the best hospital in Rome, holding his wife's hand and watching her die by inches. He was not unfaithful to her then, and he hasn't been since. But he's a kind-hearted man, and chose to show more mercy to a madwoman and her son than either of them deserved. And you've repaid him by destroying his youngest son and the Vongola's best hope for the future."

Xanxus stared at him, something like doubt appearing in his eyes. Then he covered it with rage. "Get out," he snarled at them. "Get the fuck out of my sight."

"As you like," Gianni said, and they began edging backwards, towards the door, not trusting their backs to him. "We do ask that you refrain from killing either Enrico or Massimo. The Vongola cannot spare any more of its sons."

"Get out!" Xanxus roared, reaching for the nearest object at hand.

They ducked into the hall and shut the door just in time to dodge the thrown lamp. The crash of its shattering against the wall was shortly followed by the sound of other crashes, which were themselves accompanied by a steady stream of roared curses.

"You didn't tell him about the family tree," Rafaele noted, neutrally, after a moment.

"It's in the papers," Gianni said, straightening his tie, face still. "He'll find it when he looks through them."

"If he looks at them," Rafaele said, after a moment to consider it. And even if he did, it was entirely possible that Xanxus wouldn't find being one of the descendants of the Second good enough.

"That's not really something that concerns me," Gianni said, clipped.

"I suppose it's not," Rafaele agreed, because he couldn't deny that there was a certain dark satisfaction in finally seeing something punch through the shell of Xanxus' arrogance after twelve years of dealing with it. He pushed himself away from Xanxus' door. "Come on. After that, I need a drink."

"You need a drink?" Gianni retorted, falling in with him. "All you did was watch."

"I watched your back," Rafaele corrected him.

The crashes and the curses continued behind them as they bickered their way down the hall, away from Xanxus' room.

The crowd at Federico's funeral was notable for its absences, gaps which were conspicuous among the faces of those who were present. Most prominent was Fedele's, though he could hardly have been expected to rise from the hospital bed where he was still fighting off the effects of exposure and infection in order to attend. (Although it hadn't stopped him from trying, and Iemitsu was only glad that they'd been able to stop him in time.)

Xanxus was absent as well, though mafia tradition had never precluded the triumphant presence of one candidate for succession at the funeral of his opponent. That was just as well, Iemitsu decided, since good taste did forbid such a thing.

More troubling, he decided, as he circulated through the crowd, was the undercurrent of talk that connected Fedele's absence to Xanxus'. It was a nonsensical thing to suggest, of course, but that didn't stop more than a few people from whispering as much to each other.

Federico's wife and daughter were present, but the remote expression on Aminta's face spoke of the bags she had already packed, and her intention to remove herself and her daughter from the Vongola house as soon as the funeral had ended. He hadn't been present for the conversation she'd had with her father-in-law, but they all knew by now that she'd vowed that she and her daughter would have no more to do with the Vongola.

Much good as a vow like that could do her. Still, Iemitsu wished her luck.

Enrico and Massimo were both present as well, but their minds were clearly miles away—on the line of succession, now that Xanxus had vanished to parts unknown and the named heir was dead. Neither had demonstrated the flare for command that Federico had possessed, but... running a Family didn't demand a flare, necessarily. It just demanded competence.

They both had that.

Now they eyed each other warily, speaking to each other in commonplaces, while they calculated their chances of becoming the Tenth now that the opportunity had been so precipitously opened to them.

Damn Xanxus, anyway, for having upset the careful balance that the Ninth's sons had worked out among themselves, because Iemitsu had a sinking feeling that the argument between Enrico and Massimo was going to be a bitter one.

Really, he was entirely grateful that his own position as the outside advisor had removed him from the line of succession altogether. That was one less headache in his life, anyway.

Maria let herself into the Ninth's study quietly, and waited for him and Gianni to acknowledge her presence. "I've found Xanxus," she said, when they looked up. "Alive, even," she added, which was, in her opinion, an absolute pity.

It had an electrifying effect on the Ninth. He sat up straighter, and passed a hand over his face. "Oh, thank God," he sighed. "I'd feared he'd gone and done something—rash."

Both she and Gianni pretended not to notice the dampness in his eyes. "Don't make stupid assumptions, you senile old man," she retorted. "He's taken up with the Varia." That was rashness enough to fill a book.

Gianni made a sound, surprised, and then thoughtful. "How appropriate."

"Gianni." The Ninth's voice was low, colder than Maria had ever heard him be with one of them, though the Ninth had been remarkably cool towards his right hand in the weeks since Federico's death.

Gianni flinched, and then raised his hands. "I mean no offense," he said, quickly. "But the Varia would suit his personality, don't you think? Give him some direction?"

"I can't argue with that last," Maria observed. "He's found plenty of direction with them. Hell, he's taken over."

That made the Ninth forget his anger. "He has?" he said, sharply, and then frowned. "Pity. That Squalo showed a great deal of promise, especially for someone so young."

"Squalo stepped aside, it seems," Maria corrected him, since the Ninth was bound and determined to leap to conclusions today.

"Wise of him," Gianni muttered. His voice was low enough that the Ninth let it pass unremarked.

"That's good," the Ninth said, and leaned back in his chair, folding his hands together and tapping them against his lips. "Have you seen him, then?"

"He wasn't receiving visitors," Maria said, bland, which covered a multitude of the sins committed when the Varia had tried to throw her out, and the curses Xanxus had shouted after her, about the Ninth.

The Ninth was so used to taking her word as whole and complete that he didn't ask for more. "Ah..."

"Give it time, Boss," Gianni suggested.

The Ninth sighed again. "Time, yes. Time will do it, I hope."

A pretty platitude, but not for Xanxus, Maria thought. Not for his rage. But perhaps the Ninth would be able to Will himself a miracle with his adopted son. She'd seen him do it before.

All the same, counting on a miracle was nothing but foolishness, she decided, catching Gianni's eye and giving him a significant look.

He caught up with her a few minutes after she'd excused herself. "What is it?" he asked.

"The Varia," Maria said. "I don't like the looks of the ones Xanxus is gathering to himself. Don't much like the look of Xanxus, either."

"How so?" he asked.

"You ever seen a dog go rabid?" she asked him, and watched his eyebrows drift up. "They'll turn on anyone when they do. Even their masters. Especially their masters."

He took a breath. "The Varia?"

"I want to keep an eye on them," she said. "And step up security." These days, with Xanxus, surely it was better safe than sorry.

"Done," he said, and Maria gave thanks for a man who was willing to be sensible. There were so very few of them, one had to acknowledge them. "Speak with the twins and do whatever you think is necessary. I'll get the Ninth to agree somehow."

"Done," she said, and turned away. The Ninth couldn't over-rule them when it came to his own safety, after all—that was what Guardians were for, and they were damn well not going to let Xanxus get away with any more slaughter than he already had.

The Ninth would just have to get used to it.

- end -

War of Aggression

Squalo meets Xanxus and Xanxus meets the Varia, and everything follows from that. Beginning overlaps the end of "Blood Will Tell". Drama, I-4, Squalo->Xanxus UST

The sword was everything to Squalo—the purity of a single goal and the cleanness of perfection. In a world that hid so much, despite the stark edges of every word and action, the sword was one thing that made perfect sense. It made him a little crazy that no one else seemed to understand that.

Really crazy.

He'd started his training journey hoping to find other people who understood, looking for them eagerly around every new corner, and a few even seemed to. But only a few, the ones it took a few days to defeat.

He had started out killing only when the fight went that way, when the swords called for it: the man in northern China, with the hawk that watched them fight and flew when he fell, the old man in France who'd torn a line through Squalo's ribs and smiled with his last breath, blood trickling past his bared teeth. After a while, though, Squalo started asking the swords for it, asking to obliterate disappointment after disappointment. It was only a small ease, but it was something.

Even that wore thin after a while, and he killed indifferently. Perfection was the only thing left to chase; someone else to understand it was obviously too much to ask the world for.

When he returned, Tyr shook his head and told him he'd live happier if he served the Vongola instead of the sword. Squalo wanted to scream his denial of that, but he didn't use his voice to do it; it was better to let his sword answer, scream after scream of steel on steel through the hours, through the slant and set of sunlight, as his breath came light and burning in his lungs. He didn't bother telling Tyr's body that he would serve the sword; Tyr's body already knew.

Walking among the Vongola was like walking among any other people—like walking through paper dolls, clumsy and thin, only a few of them with any fire in them and that infuriatingly hidden. He went where he was asked, showed around to the few who knew what he would be, and it meant nothing.

Until him.

Squalo didn't even know who he was, at first, only that in a garden full of thin, airy people, he was dark and dense and hot, hot enough to melt even sword steel. When Squalo asked his name, burning eyes slid through him and he barely heard the answer.

"Xanxus."

Squalo had never known a human could be a sword, be that single of mind, that perfectly focused—that crazy. It only took a few days to realize the last part, but by then he didn't care.

Before

"The Varia." Xanxus frowned a little. "Who are they?"

Squalo cocked his head; did the Boss hold that back even from his sons? Well, he hadn't been told not to tell the heirs, so it didn't matter really. "We're the Vongola's assassins. We're the best."

The fire at the back of Xanxus' eyes flared for a moment. "The best, huh?" His thin mouth curled. "That's a start." He focused on Squalo and Squalo almost swayed back with the weight of it. "Show me."

"Our headquarters are in a different house."

Xanxus shrugged. "So?"

After a moment, Squalo laughed. Of course it wouldn't make any difference; nothing would make any difference to this man or mark the purity of his purpose. He swept out his right hand and bowed with a flourish, half mocking and dead serious. "Right this way."

They walked past the mansion's guards without a word, and Squalo saw the way Xanxus' eyes marked where each one stood, aware of every target around him. They took the best car from the garages; Xanxus pulled the keys out of the cabinet and tossed them at Squalo, who shrugged. It was appropriate, wasn't it?

He did want to see, some time, how Xanxus would drive, whether he'd do it as fast and hard as he walked and spoke and looked, but that could wait.

They were waved through into the sprawling old building the Varia kept, as soon as the guards there recognized Squalo, and no one commented about the man he was showing around the white plastered training rooms. People did gather, though.

"Weak," Xanxus muttered, eyes passing over the lower ranks working out, adding cuts and craters to the walls, to be patched over like all the others. Squalo snorted and nodded toward the far corner where Viper was playing mind games with one of the stronger of the new recruits. Xanxus watched, not blinking as walls appeared and vanished, as Levi punched through them trying to reach his opponent. "Hmph." Finally he pushed away from the wall. "All right, then. I'll take the Varia."

A startled sound ran through the watchers and one of the squad leaders shouldered forward. "Only the Varia decide who we'll recruit and accept. Who says you're good enough for us?"

"I say he is." Squalo's flat voice cut through the mutter of agreement and stilled it.

Xanxus paused in his step forward to turn and glare at him. "And who are you?"

"The leader of the Varia." Squalo lifted his chin, matching Xanxus' hot stare. A corner of Xanxus mouth curled up, neither a smile nor a snarl.

"Not any more."

"Not any more," Squalo agreed, voice a little husky despite himself, because standing under Xanxus' eyes was like standing in a fire.

"Fucking right, not any more, if you give it up that easy," Fazio called, moving up to stand across from them. His squad second, the one who'd protested the most when Squalo, instead of Fazio, took over after Tyr, stood at his shoulder and suddenly there was a block coming together. Squalo curled his lip and reached for his sword; his new left hand wasn't ready yet, but he could take these right handed and end this now.

Light flickered at the corner of his eye and he glanced over, breath catching as what had to be the Vongola Flame gathered in Xanxus' bare hand. Squalo looked up at him, at his suddenly fixed smile and the rage in his eyes, and bent his head, stepping back.

He watched, leaning against the uneven wall, while Xanxus' fists pounded the third squad leader until he couldn't have three unbroken bones left, while Xanxus shot Fazio's second five times and barely looked at him, while Xanxus closed his burning hand on Fazio's face and blasted his head off. In the silence afterwards, broken only by Xanxus' hard breaths hissing past his teeth, Squalo looked around and nodded.

"Looks like that's that, then." He waited until Xanxus looked at him and a little of the killing glaze left his eyes, and added, "Boss."

Xanxus flexed his hand, breath steadying, shoulders relaxing a little. "Damn right."

Xanxus took over rooms on the west side with a balcony hidden behind trees; Squalo was glad, because Xanxus wanted to see him at odd times and he didn't much care for the insipid atmosphere of the main headquarters.

"So what is it you want, anyway?" he asked one afternoon, leaning against the balcony's rough stone rail, watching Xanxus slouch in one of the two chairs. He asked half just to see the fire in Xanxus' eyes flare, but half because he was really starting to wonder.

"The Vongola," Xanxus growled.

"So you're passing the time here until the Ninth kicks off?" Squalo's mouth twisted, but he couldn't manage too much bitterness. The time he had to be near this fire was more than he might have expected to get from one of the heirs.

"I'm not going to wait for that."

Squalo started upright, wavering on the rail before he caught himself, eyes wide as he stared at the thin, crooked smile Xanxus was wearing. "You... what?"

Xanxus looked up and Squalo got lost again in the raw ferocity of his gaze. "They won't let me inherit."

"I thought you were favored for it, now that Federico is dead," Squalo said slowly. He swore he'd heard at least half the under-bosses of the Family talking about how they'd want Xanxus to be the Tenth.

"Not by the old bastard. Not by any of the old men." Xanxus didn't move from his slouch in the dappled shade, but violence in waiting sang from the line of his shoulders, the tension of his hands. It made Squalo a little breathless.

"So you're going to take it anyway?" he asked, low, eyes fixed on Xanxus. "Take it now?"

Xanxus smiled up at him, teeth bared, and the weight of his intent nearly buckled Squalo's knees. "Yeah."

Squalo's brain finally kicked into gear. "That's why you want us?"

"Mm." Xanxus' intensity banked again and he picked up his glass and drained it. "Some of you anyway."

Xanxus' particular attention to a few dozen of the Varia snapped into a pattern and Squalo laughed. This was a goal that matched that burning focus. "If that's what you want. Boss." They both heard the difference in the way he said it, this time, and a moment of satisfaction hooded Xanxus' eyes.

Only the strongest should lead, that was an article of faith among the Varia. As far as Squalo was concerned, Xanxus was the Tenth.

"It's the best moment for us to go. Reborn is assigned out to the Cavallone and the outside advisor is back in Japan. The Storm will still be around, but the Cloud is out putting the fear of her into the Valetti, we can deal with her later. The Thunder is up in Venezia this month, too."

"That means we still have four of them to hit." Otello frowned, flipping a knife absently. "Will they be on the Ninth or the entrances?"

"Everyone agrees the Mist will stay on the Ninth and the Storm will go for the front line." Squalo folded his arms, leaning a hip on the scarred wood table that filled the middle of the room. "The Rain and the Sun could do either."

"Levi for the front whenever the alarm goes up, then," Carlo murmured, and the entire room chuckled. Carlo approved of his new squad member, but Levi's enthusiasm had given even him some headaches.

"We'll come through here," Squalo rapped a knuckle over the main entrance. "Vinci, your squad will come in from the north. Get past as many of the small fry as you can without involving them, they don't need to know until it's over."

Vinci flicked a glance at Xanxus, sprawled in his chair and not looking like he was paying any attention at all. Squalo rolled his eyes.

He was treating this as just another assassination, and that meant blueprints and timing and people knowing who was going to be where. Xanxus, as far as he could tell, would prefer to ditch all that and burn through the front door and every wall in his way on a straight line between him and the Ninth. It wasn't that Squalo actually minded that, and he'd assigned himself to go in with Xanxus so he could watch it happen. Some of the others, even after six months to get used to it, weren't taking their new boss' brooding as calmly.

Or maybe it was just that Vinci was the one who'd been promoted to replace Fazio.

"North side. Right." Vinci said, finally, and Squalo snorted.

"Get with it, or I'll kill you my own damn self! There's no room for screw ups in this one."

That lit up everyone in the room, spines straightening, eyes brightening. This would, without question, be the ultimate test of their strength. A corner of Squalo's mouth drew up. They were going to put the best, the realest Vongola in charge. The Vongola who understood strength.

The Vongola who was purest.

Sirens were going, surprise was blown, so was some of the middle of the mansion, the air was hard to breath for the hanging gunpowder, and Squalo was laughing.

This was it, this was how it should be, the unstoppable rush along that one single line toward victory. He ran at Xanxus' back, spinning aside to cut down the men who tried to flank them, and pure exhilaration filled him, shivering down his spine every time Xanxus fired.

They had figured they would have to go through at least one of the Guardians before they even found the Ninth and the Sun was the one they ran into. Somehow Squalo wasn't surprised.

"Xanxus!" Rizzo shouted, and Squalo saw the distant focus in Xanxus' gaze come closer for a moment, lips pulling up off his teeth.

"Fedele! My son, you little piece of shit!"

Xanxus actually laughed at that, and Squalo fell back out of his way.

Rizzo and Xanxus left their guns aside and met with their fists, brutal and fast in the middle of the open hall. They ignored anything happening around them and almost nothing was; Squalo cut down the three defenders who had followed him and Xanxus this far through the twisting maze of hallways. Rizzo was the only one who had come from ahead. Squalo eyed the open door beyond him and smiled, teeth bared. That was one of the entrances to the vaults.

There weren't even words to Rizzo's shouting anymore, just raw rage as he drove fists and feet into Xanxus. Xanxus didn't bother to answer out loud, but the glimpses Squalo got of his snarl, of the frozen hate in his eyes, were harsher than any curses.

Finally, Xanxus kicked Rizzo back toward the open door, drew his gun, and smiled. Squalo's breath caught at the chill calculation in that look, and he dove for the floor as Xanxus fired, Flame blooming out from the path of it, cracking the walls. The shot smashed Rizzo back through the door and down the stairs, and Squalo dove after him on Xanxus' heels.

There were more gunmen down in the vaults.

Squalo rolled and came up behind a pillar, poised to dash in to sword range, eye mapping the field. Rizzo was down; a handful of the Varia were running in from the other side of the vaults; the Ninth was to the back; Xanxus was roaring and charging towards him; the old man's right hand was coming to meet him. The Storm and Sun were accounted for upstairs. That left...

Squalo threw himself aside as another sword cut the stone over his head. He looked up and bared his teeth at the Rain, the one who thought he was a swordsman. "Not bad. But not good enough!" He twisted his arm to draw his sword.

"You're quick to judge that," Martelli returned, cool, and attacked again.

He was sharp and fast, the cool part of Squalo's mind observed, and he had some fire. But not enough of it. Squalo drove in again and again, willing to pay with blood for the openings that would lead to victory, matching his still-light frame against the age of Martelli's joints. The gash across his shoulder matched the one in Martelli's thigh and they both had to dive apart to avoid the slashing shards of stone where Xanxus' blast hit one of the pillars.

Martelli's style was evasive, his sword light; he wouldn't meet any of Squalo's cuts straight on enough for the moves like Attacco di Squalo to work. Squalo pressed in on him, watching the line of his sword, working to cage it. Martelli turned the moment and and bound his sword for a breath. Squalo's grin pulled a bit wider; Martelli wasn't a true swordsman, but he was good enough to be interesting.

"Why have the Varia betrayed the Vongola?" Martelli asked, dark eyes locked with Squalo's, pushing at his focus.

"We've betrayed nothing," Squalo growled back. "You lot with your pathetic, half-hearted spirits, what do you know about what's true? How can you see it? We serve the Vongola through him." He shifted his balance and threw Martelli back, exultation leaping higher. There was the opening he wanted, as Martelli's heel came down short, and he lunged for it, everything focused in the moment, clean and sharp and burning.

For a moment the purity of triumph kept him from feeling the pain.

"What's true is the Family," Martelli said quietly in his ear, words cutting through the clamor and echo of the other fighting. "And what will best serve the Family is steel that's tempered. Ruthlessness with compassion. Mercy with determination." His lips peeled back. "If you insist that we also prove the tempered blade is the strongest... I'll trust Timoteo to do that."

Then Martelli fell and his sword ripped back out of Squalo's side and he couldn't completely stifle the sound he made. The cool, fluted stone of a pillar was at his back and he slid down it, staring across the floor at Martelli. He knew the truth of those words about tempering, but Xanxus...

"The best sword needs a will to wield it," he gasped. But it was too late; Martelli had passed out. Looking beyond him Squalo saw the Ninth's right hand down as well. So it must be the Ninth himself he heard on the other side of the pillar, fighting with Xanxus.

Flame blew another chunk out of the pillar to his left and his mouth curled in a bloody smile; maybe he'd stay where he was for now.

And then the blasts stopped.

Squalo's vision was going a bit gray at the edges, not that it was easy to tell in the darkness of the vaults. He pressed a hand tight to his side, biting down a harsh gasp, and listened. Had Xanxus won?

But no, Xanxus and the Ninth were both talking. Yelling. Squalo stared into the dark ahead of him, eyes stretched wide as he listened, and suddenly he understood the whole thing, understood why the purity of Xanxus' rage had that edge of smoldering desperation sometimes. The cold of the stone behind and under him seeped into his bones as he listened.

When he heard shock in Xanxus' voice and a sound he couldn't identity, he rolled to the left, ignoring the tearing pain in his side, and saw all the passion and perfect focus he had ever wanted to follow frozen. That was the picture that followed him down into redness and then into blackness. His last, unraveling thought was that it wasn't right. His death for failing this mission should have come at Xanxus' hands.

After

Squalo stared up at the ceiling of a hospital room, watching the movement of the dim square of light reflecting off the tile floor and wondering a bit absently whether he was going to live. Having woken up here wasn't an actual guarantee of life; they might just be saving him as a witness. The Ninth did seem to want justifications before he shot people.

When the Ninth's right hand arrived alone and locked the door behind him, Squalo wondered some more.

Staffieri looked down at him coldly, and Squalo stared back. Finally the man spoke. "Xanxus is exiled."

Squalo laughed, even though it still hurt like hell; he couldn't help it. "Ah. So he's on ice, huh?"

Staffieri's eyes narrowed. "You were conscious, then. And you didn't stand by him?"

Squalo bared his teeth at that; they understood nothing. "And get in his way? Fuck no. Besides, without that hell technique, whatever the fuck it was, he'd have won." He took some satisfaction in the way Staffieri's mouth tightened. He hoped the man was remembering who'd taken him down.

"Xanxus is no longer here," Staffieri continued, shifting stiffly on his feet. "And very few people know what happened that day, certainly none of Vongola's enemies. It is the Ninth's wish that this continue. If you will give your oath to obey only the Ninth's orders, you will be released to take charge of the Varia once more and set it in order."

Squalo turned his eyes up to the blank ceiling again, energy and emotion alike running out of him. "Yeah. Sure I will." What was the point of doing otherwise, with Xanxus frozen in a block of fucking ice, for God's sake? "The Varia belong to the Vongola."

And if it wasn't the Vongola he'd wanted, well, what the hell else was he going to do?

Staffieri nodded silently and turned on his heel.

"Hey!" Squalo called, suddenly, and the man looked back over his shoulder. "Is Xanxus still alive, in there?"

Staffieri's mouth tightened. "Yes."

And he didn't like it, obviously. Tough. Squalo took a breath. "Is he conscious?"

Staffieri studied him for a long moment before finally answering. "I don't believe so, no. He is... suspended, as it were."

Squalo closed his eyes. "Okay." As the door clicked open and shut he stared at the back of his eyelids and thought about that. It was about as merciful as being frozen could be; at least Xanxus wouldn't know he was locked away like that.

A tiny thought stirred in the back of his head, suggesting that, if Xanxus ever got out, he would pick up right where he left off. Squalo shoved the thought in a mental box. He didn't have much enthusiasm for serving the Ninth, but he didn't want to die, either. He'd make his oath and mean it.

For as long as the Ninth lasted.

Squalo looked down the roster of the Varia and rolled his eyes. It was time to talk to Bel again about keeping down the fatalities when he played with the supporting members. He swore the little shit did it just to annoy him, because Bel was otherwise one of the most practical of the squad leaders, right up there with Mammon and far more willing to fight. He leaned back, crossing his ankles on the immovably solid desk, and scribbled a note to himself right handed as he flipped the roster back onto the desk and reached for this month's intelligence summary.

"Boss!" The door flung open so hard the knob scarred the wood paneling and Squalo looked up with a glare.

"I told you not to call me that."

Carlo leaned against the door frame, panting, and gave him back glare for glare. "You do the work, don't fucking argue now, something happened!"

Squalo made another note, this one mental, to "train" with Carlo some time soon; just because he was the oldest surviving squad leader, and had been in on the Cradle five years ago, didn't mean Squalo was going to put up with any shit about this. He wasn't the Varia's boss; the Varia's boss was frozen, not dead.

"Goddamn it, Squalo, listen to me! Enrico just killed Massimo!"

Squalo grunted. "Old man's down to one, now, is he?"

His hand, reaching for the papers, halted in midair as his own words echoed back to him. Just one son left. Just one standing between the Boss' chair and the only candidate who was also qualified. Except that he wasn't, of course.

Except that no one but the Ninth and his Guardians, and Squalo himself, knew that. And the Ninth was obviously soft on Xanxus, even after Xanxus tried to kill him, or else why was Xanxus still alive?

He sat back, eyes fixed on Carlo, and spread his hands on the desk. "So. I guess that means Enrico is going to be the next." The next boss, he meant, of course.

The brief curl of Carlo's lips was fierce and pleased. "Yeah. If he's going to make it, he'd better stop picking up the girls from other Families, though. That little piece from the Vieri he's making time with this month would sell him out for a couple of pretty rocks." The sneer that went with the statement looked totally genuine so Squalo figured he didn't mean the kind of rocks that came in jewelry. That would make things easier; she'd be paid and dead in one shot, if he could get something pure enough through the Bolzoni.

"Well, if she's that easy to buy off, the Family can probably pay her to leave him alone." He shrugged carelessly. "If anyone can convince him." He leaned back again, crossing his arms behind his head, and grinned at Carlo, showing his teeth. "What do you think? Maybe Lussuria could persuade him; he's always giving everyone else relationship advice."

Carlo rolled his eyes. "If he can't, hell, maybe Mammon can try the practical approach."

Yes. That would work. Mammon's illusion could cover the team and Lussuria never had problems with cleaning up targets and obstacles alike. And once the last son was out of the way...

He and Carlo both smiled, slowly, eyes meeting across the desk of the Varia's boss.

"...never actually proven, was it?"

"Even if he did kill the favorite, it's not like the Ninth has room to be picky any more."

Squalo paused around a corner and smiled to himself. A few words dropped here and there, some squad leaders reminiscing over drinks about what an effective leader Xanxus had been, and it was amazing how the whole Family, anxious over the lack of an heir, was talking about the same man.

"Squalo!" Ricci called to him as he walked past them. "Just the man. Listen, about Xanxus..."

"Xanxus is exiled by the Ninth's order," Squalo said flatly. The flat tone wasn't hard when he thought about the form of that 'exile'.

"Yes, but if he weren't. I mean it's not like there's anyone else left, is there? So tell me; would he make a good Boss?"

Squalo looked aside. "I can't speak for that," he muttered. "He was a good leader to the Varia." He watched the two underbosses out of the corner of his eye and was careful to show no satisfaction at the thoughtful looks on their faces. A man who could lead the Varia, after all, would make easy work of the rest of the Family, wouldn't he?

"I heard you won't let anyone call you the Varia's boss," Gallo put in, leaning against the wall, eyes sharp.

Squalo lifted his head; this he didn't need to fake or be careful of. "Xanxus is exiled, not dead. He's our boss."

Ricci and Gallo exchanged a long look and Squalo turned away down the hall again, suppressing the urge to whistle cheerfully. Just a few more like that, and they'd be getting somewhere.

Three weeks later he was called in to talk to the Ninth.

"I understand you've been talking to people about Xanxus," the old man said, mild as milk which didn't fool Squalo for a second.

"People have been talking to me," Squalo corrected, folding his arms. "I'm not going to lie about him, if they ask." He let his mouth twist. "Not any more than we're all lying already."

The Ninth sat back with a sigh and his right hand gave Squalo a glare that said he'd be happy to shoot Squalo where he stood. Squalo ignored it; it wasn't Staffieri he had to convince.

"Well," the old man said, "be honest with me, also, then. If Xanxus is released, will he make another attempt?"

It made things easier, Squalo reflected, that the Ninth obviously wanted the answer to be no. "You defeated him," he said, a bit through his teeth but that was only to be expected. "The Varia live and die by our strength, and only the strongest have the right to lead." And this time, that strength wouldn't be betrayed by a trick, at the end. They'd plan better.

"Mmm." The Ninth folded his hands under his chin, staring at nothing.

"Boss," Staffieri said, quiet but agitated. "You can't really be thinking..."

"I do not agree with those who say Xanxus is the only choice," the Ninth said, to both of them Squalo thought. "But we are in need of strength to protect the Family, now." He nodded to Squalo. "Thank you. You can go."

Squalo closed the door behind him on Staffieri arguing with the Ninth in a low voice, and smiled. He thought he knew who would win, in the end.

In the end, it would be Xanxus.

When he heard the raised voice, Squalo brushed past the foot soldiers standing, or trying to, in front of the vault door and into that echoing, scarred room. The other squad leaders followed him. "Boss!"

Xanxus was shaking and pale, except for the raw-looking scars over most of his skin, but he was on his feet and had breath to shout. That was all Squalo needed.

Except that the shouting cut off sharply when Xanxus saw him, and Squalo paused, cautious of the tangled shock and rage in Xanxus' face. "Boss," he said again, offering it like a guide-rope to draw their leader back to himself, back to them.

Back to him.

"Squalo," Xanxus said, finally, voice harsh and rasping.

Squalo didn't step forward, didn't support Xanxus, didn't move as Xanxus staggered toward them. They were the Varia and he was their leader, and the Ninth's goddamn Guardians could frown all they liked. They'd never understood.

Xanxus raked his eyes over all of them, settling at last on Squalo again, and if the fire in them was wilder than it had been, well, none of them had much vested in sanity. Finally he nodded.

"Let's go."

Squalo smiled, tight and sharp, hearing the future in those two words. "Yes, Boss."

End