Witch Hunter Robin Fan Fiction ❯ Binah (Understanding) ❯ Decency ( Chapter 2 )

Summer came early to Tokyo. Doujima noticed it with a mixture of delight and annoyance. Delight that she could pull out her pastels for yet another season, annoyed that she was actually sweating into her Manolos. Open-toed heels weren't going to cut it any longer, she decided. Summer called for something strappier, perhaps slingback kitten heels. It was time again for loose, sheer skirts, or at least shorter ones, and sleeveless tops in fluttering silk and airy cotton. Anything that she could peel off at the end of the day, anything that would look good piled on the floor of her apartment when she took a naked afternoon nap under a speeding ceiling fan. She absolutely loathed the humidity of Tokyo in the summer. It left her feeling sticky and disgusting. It didn't help that STN-J's Hunter offices were at the top floor of their building, either. It was far too stuffy in there. She'd always had a theory that Hunting Witches would be easier from a little table at a plaza café, or maybe from the little benches that bordered city fountains. In fact, she thought it was silly that so much Hunting only went on at night; Witches could and did go out in the day, often unnoticed. Did Witches not go to Kinokuniya? Did Witches not take advantage of the free gift with purchase at the Shiseido counter?

And really, that was what drew her out of the office one sunny afternoon; the Shiseido spread she found in her mailbox that morning. Because really, with this humidity, foundation was a disaster; it was time to switch to tinted moisturizer with SPF15 and light-diffusers. And some new perfume couldn't hurt, either—something citrusy and warm for summer. And really, if she was going to change fragrances, why not buy the whole set? Soap for the shower, lotion for sun-dried skin, eau de parfum, body mist, and her favorite, the baby-soft puff of iridescent perfumed powder that left a sparkling, delicious trail wherever she dabbed or swept; Doujima just had to have them.

In fact, she wasn't going to spend any more, until she saw It.

It, in this case, was a fantastic white summer dress. Sleeveless and strapless, landing just above the knee, and patterned uniformly with splashy green abstract palm leaves; it stood on the mannequin as though daring Doujima to try it on. The pattern cut across the dress diagonally, emphasizing the unnatural curves of the mannequin. A green ribbon tied at the waist, adding a vintage note to the otherwise modern-throwback look. In no less than ten seconds, Doujima had a sales associate looking for her size.

The trouble was that her size was out. The dress was on sale, and it had been snapped up in the most popular sizes. There were only a few left. Doujima was faced with a conflict: ask for her size at another store, and hope it fit, or try to think of someone else who could wear the dress? By this point, leaving the dress in the store was out of the question. The dress was a pretty little orphan looking for a wearer; she couldn't leave it alone to be marked down later and then taken home by an undeserving woman two sizes too big for it. No, indeed, now she was in the role of placement officer, haute couture social worker. Someone would take the dress, but who? Certainly not Miho; she was too tall for the available sizes. In fact, only the tiniest sizes were left, and green was such a tricky color…

Doujima's eyes lit up. Instantly, she had the sales associate back. She began looking at sizes. “Is there a matching sweater?” she asked.

“Do you like mohair?”

“Do I? Am I breathing? Get it!”

***

It was like Christmas in July. Doujima had never felt so good. Well, some nights with Nagira, she felt this good. She smiled at the thought of him, and how he'd chide her when he came to her apartment that night. He liked her apartment better, he was always saying; it felt more like a home with its constant mess and dirty dishes and half-burned aromatherapy candles and meaningless, colorful, popular art. She knew he'd be sticking around when she noticed how well his big fluffy white coat went with her white leather furniture. It was almost scary. She wanted to cuddle naked on that coat for a good long time, and one time, close to the first time, they had.

“Happy?” he had asked.

“Mmm,” she'd answered, kissing whatever surface she could find, because she was in fact so happy that the words would just not come. In him, she'd found a kindred spirit; someone else who knew life was just too short to take too seriously. Someone who, like her, really just wanted to live, and live well at that. She didn't plan on letting him go anytime soon.

“Your water, Miss Doujima,” another sales associate said. Pulled out of her reverie, Doujima smiled up at the girl, and gratefully took the glass of ice and bottle of sparkling water. Pouring it, her mouth watered. Her feet were propped up on an ultra-modern glass-and-steel coffee table strewn with fashion trade magazines. Bags waited at her feet. Thumping house beats played through the boutique. It was chilly in the store; the air conditioning was designed to make people take advantage of the sale on cute little contrast-stitched polyester Puma zipups, with the matching messenger bags in matte and patent leather. If you bought one, you received a free key fob. The green matte version rested on the floor. What girl didn't need a messenger bag? Honestly.

“That's it for the jeans?” Doujima asked. Four models were standing in front of her. The store manager gestured to them. They stood on a miniature runway lit from beneath with fluorescents.

“Yes,” the manager answered. “Do you see any that you think are to your liking?”

“I'll take two of the low-rise bootcut, one dark wash and one light wash.”

“Very good, Miss. Would you like to move on to sleepwear?”

A catlike grin curled across Doujima's face. “You know what? That's a great idea. I won't be needing pants, though. Show me only shorts, and matching tanks.”

***

Like most ceremonies, it started with underwear. Upon purchasing the dress, Doujima had suddenly asked herself: “Does Robin really have a strapless bra?”

That question was met with a resounding interior “no.” So, it was off to the lingerie specialists. Because really, Robin would need something that could hold up; God only knew when Amon let the poor little thing outside, much less to shop—did she even have underwear? Best to buy quality the first time. Luckily there was a sales girl about Robin's size in the store, who could recommend the right fit…after that, it was really only a matter of colors, fabrics, styles…Doujima could have spent an entire day there debating between tangas and boyshorts, wondering if Robin was a satin, lace, cotton, or microfiber girl (eventually, she decided on all of them), how much push-up was seemly on a fifteen-year-old, which bras would vanish under those lace-trimmed garment-dyed super-soft V-neck tanks she'd just purchased…

In the end, she left with a bunch of alluring pink bags. Then she decided that really, even if Robin did look better without makeup (the lucky little brat!), some nourishing sunscreen couldn't hurt, and some decent, all-natural shampoo and conditioner, the kind that smelled like honey and almonds…

***

Nagira found her later, in bright orange mesh tank and thong, curled on top of her bed under a ceiling fan, just like she'd hoped for all day. He looked at the bags on the floor. “Bad day?” he asked.

“No,” she answered, smiling. She stretched; watching the reaction play across his face. “Good day.”

“Don't tell me these aren't for you…?”

She shook her head, still grinning playfully. “Nope, not for me.”

Nagira frowned, perplexed, and began digging through the bags. He was always one for a good mystery. Doujima giggled as his hands found one of the pink bags. He held up one Kelly-green triangle halter bra with white contrast piping. Dangling from his finger like that, the complete lack of real coverage was more than apparent.

His eyes twinkled gleefully. “Green, hmm?”

Doujima nodded, barely able to restrain her giggles. “Uh-huh.”

He dropped the bra back into the bag. “You've been a very naughty little girl…” He strode over to the bed, knelt on it and crawled his way over to her, settling his weight between her legs. “And I love you.”

Delighted, she laughed.

***

They were standing over the kitchen sink. “Concentrate,” Robin said, gesturing at the small amount she'd plugged up within the sink.

Amon concentrated. He stared hard at the placid water in the old, chipped sink. It was old-fashioned, like everything else in the apartment. There was a brown ring of rust surrounding the drains where years of food had congealed; it was a divided sink. The water reflected the early summer sunlight streaming in through the kitchen window. He stared into the water; withdrew his focus and found his face reflected in the pool. He saw his own dark eyes staring at him, and tried to wipe out that hard face with a coat of frost. He focused harder, trying, trying…nothing.

“I can't,” he said simply.

“That isn't true,” Robin said calmly. “You can.”

Amon turned to her. “No, I can't,” he repeated, adding some iron to his tone.

Her face remained blank. “I know you can. I saw you do it.”

This brought up an entirely new series of thoughts for Amon. He suddenly wondered what exactly he'd looked like—it had all happened so fast, he could barely remember… “What did it look like, that night?” he asked.

Robin thought. By now he was used to her thinking expression; the subtle pressing together of her lips and the way her eyes narrowed, similar to her face's look before she made the flame. “Painful,” she murmured. “You screamed…I thought you were hurt.” She blinked rapidly. “But then, the ice came, and you looked so angry…” Her eyes met his. “Like the day you took down the other fire Witch.”

Memories flashed through Amon's mind. There was the Earth Craft user, laughing maniacally, and Aki Yoshiyoka, advancing on Robin, numbly repeating “only my sister…” while the hallway blazed with fire… “Amon.”

He blinked back to reality. Robin looked at the kitchen window. It had iced over completely, a bit of Jack Frost in the middle of summer. Already, the heat was melting it; drops of water condensed on its surface. It waited there, surreal and silent. Amon sighed, looking at it.

“It's anger, isn't it?” Robin asked softly. “You have to be angry.”

The sound of a car pulling up outside interrupted them. Amon jerked away, and Robin followed him to the kitchen screen-door. Nagira's car waited outside. “He knows better than to come here in the day,” Amon growled. They both watched as Nagira exited the car, still wearing his absurd white fur in such heat. A moment later, Doujima left the car as well, waving excitedly. Nagira pressed something on his key fob, and the trunk popped open. Eagerly, Doujima began digging through the trunk, loading shopping bag after shopping bag on her hands and arms.

“What's all that?” Robin asked.

Amon didn't answer, reflecting that Robin truly didn't know Doujima. A moment later, one pair greeted the other. “Why the long face on such a sunny day?” Nagira asked, by way of greeting. The brothers didn't embrace, merely making the wise decision to stand aside while Doujima loaded the bags onto the kitchen table. They crowded there, rustling as she sat them down carefully. She whirled to face the others, the edge of her crepe silk skirt fluttering with her movement. She held her bare arms behind her back and smiled. “Okay, girl-time, now, time for boys to get out and do icky boy-stuff!” She shooed Amon and Nagira with her hands. The brothers shared a look, before turning back to the women.

“At least let me ask Robin how she's doing, Yurika. May I do that, before my brother and I go hide out and play war?” Nagira asked, grinning. Doujima rolled her eyes and nodded. Nagira pointed his mischievous gaze at Robin. He shrugged toward Amon. “How is it, living with this big lout?”

Robin blinked. “He's very clean. And he lets me sleep in.”

“Which is more fun, living with him or me?”

“Nagira!” Doujima shushed him. “You only had one question, anyway, and it's time to go. I have lots to go over, with Robin!” She winked at him.

As if remembering something, Nagira sprung from his relaxed position against the kitchen counter and waved for Amon to follow him. “She's right, little brother,” he said. “Time to go.” Confused, Amon looked from the bags to Doujima to Robin, his eyes settling there. Robin's eyes flicked to the bags and back to him. She shook her head minutely. She had no idea what they were, either, or what Doujima had up her sleeve. Without thinking, his eyebrows raised, asking a question he wouldn't have been able to put into words. Robin nodded. He nodded to her in return, and descended the stairs.

The car felt like an oven. He started sweating instantly upon sitting in it. “Big lout?” he asked.

“Very clean?” Nagira responded, the mocking irony apparent even in the smallest phrase. He started the car.

***

They were looking at pornography. “A naïve country boy finds himself living his greatest fantasies when his sexy cram school teacher, bouncy co-worker, sweet landlady, and compelling, submissive personal android join him on the beach for an unforgettable dream summer vacation,” Nagira read aloud, looking at a dvd case. He flipped it over, looking at the grinning boy on the cover surrounded by beautiful women in bathing suits. “Sounds like fun.”

The hole-in-the-wall pornography shop was hot and oppressive. Music that Amon guessed was supposed to be alluring was piped in all over the store. Sex toys waited in class cases beneath cash registers. The manager, sweating through his ancient polo shirt, idly flipped through an old issue of a barely legal magazine. From where he stood, Amon could see the girl he stared at. Her hair was bleached an impossible shade of silvery white, and her open mouth dripped semen. Amon turned away and looked at Nagira, who was now investigating a wall of colorful and multi-flavored condoms.

“What are we doing here?”

“Icky boy-stuff,” Nagira answered sagely. He picked up a sake-flavored condom, turning it over and reading the disclaimer.

“Aside from that,” Amon said dryly.

“Hey, I'm doing you a favor, little brother,” Nagira said, making a generous and expansive gesture with his hands, twirling the sake condom in his fingers. Its foil wrapper caught the unflattering fluorescent light and glittered. “It's not like you can look at this stuff with a fifteen-year-old in the house.”

Despite the inherent moral repugnance of the idea, Nagira was right. Amon dutifully turned around, and found himself some lesbians in fetish gear, watching him from the cover of glossy magazine. “Are there any new developments?” he asked. He flipped through the issue.

“Single-Eye is back,” Nagira answered casually. “Seems he's up to his old tricks again. He's moved neighborhoods, now, but the profile matches.”

Amon remembered Single-Eye. The homeless Witch had waited under STN-J's very noses for an entire investigation, enacting his own vendettas while distracting the office; eventually fading out of focus when his revenge was finished. STN-J was never able to crack the case or discover his motivation for filling his victims' minds with an incomprehensible and uncontrollable fear, causing them to seek any solution—even throwing themselves into busy streets. Single-Eye had even attacked Sakaki, perhaps as a message to STN-J to leave the case alone. The Hunting team had watched helplessly in confusion as Sakaki collapsed to the floor of the subway terminal where they were Hunting, his entire body quaking with fear. And then Robin came forward quietly, and held his head in her hands, bringing it to rest against her abdomen, soothing him and pushing Single-Eye's magic completely away.

Amon's eyes focused again on the magazine. A young girl, hands bound behind her back in an elaborate Nawa Shibari knot whose rope laced over her entire body and supported her bare breasts, stared up at him with wide eyes from her bent position on the floor. Her behind was rosy pink—recently flogged. Then he noticed the awkward pair of hornrim glasses she wore, and snapped the magazine shut. “Where is he living, now?” he asked Nagira.

“In the Walled City,” Nagira answered darkly. “He's having a fun time driving other Witches into panic attacks, getting them to use their power.”

“Is STN-J handling it?”

“They're trying, but they're backlogged. They're training the replacement.” Nagira's eyes met Amon's. “Yes. Replacement.”

“Who?”

“A woman. She's from Germany. In her thirties, actually. It seems that Solomon decided to go with age and experience, this time. She knows her game.”

“Craft user?”

Nagira nodded. “Telekinesis,” he answered. “She's survived a long time, with the gift.” Too late, Nagira realized the cruel irony in his last word, and looked at the floor. The music in the store changed to something thumping, punctuated with the occasional samples of a woman's ecstatic moans. “I'm sorry,” he muttered.

“It's nothing.” Amon put the magazine away. “Is she a danger to us?”

“I'm not sure, yet,” his brother answered. “Perhaps. But she's busy, for now, and Solomon isn't exactly expending too many resources to search for you.”

“Because Doujima has told them we're dead,” Amon murmured. His eyes naturally sought the entrance to the store, searching for predators out of habit. “Someday, I will have to thank Doujima for what she's done.”

“That would be good of you.” The brothers shared another look.

“Time to go?” Amon asked. Nagira nodded, then flashed his grin. “After I buy some presents.”

Amon's face pinched with distaste. “I'll wait in the car.”

***

Robin sat with a befuddled expression when Amon entered the kitchen. Nagira and Doujima wished them well, and were finally gone. By then the sun was out of the kitchen, leaving it thankfully a bit cooler. “What are all these?” he asked, gesturing at the bags that still littered the kitchen table.

“Clothes,” Robin answered dully. “Jeans. Shirts. That kind of thing.”

“Don't they fit?” Amon asked, looking at the bags. Bits of material hung out of most of them. Doujima had obviously been showing them off.

“It's not that,” Robin said morosely. She pulled her knees up to her chest. “They're just…weird.”

Amon fiddled with the remains of something in the refrigerator that might be suitable for lunch. He popped the top on a carton, sniffed it for anything offensive, and, not finding anything, took up a pair of chopsticks and dug in. “All of those are clothes?”

Robin startled a little guiltily. He frowned. “Not every single one of them, no,” she murmured, casting a nervous glance at the glossy pink bags bursting with black tissue paper. She hugged her knees tighter.

“What else did she give you?”

Robin shook her head violently. “I can't tell you.”

Amon's frown deepened. He put the chopsticks decisively into the carton, and set the carton down on the counter deliberately. He folded his arms, straightening up. “You can't tell me? What exactly can't you tell me?” Robin only answered by shaking her head, her face betraying her by turning the faintest bit pink. He strode to stand before her. “You don't trust me?”

Her eyes widened and she shook her head yet again. “No, it's not that, Amon, I just—it just…it's…they're…” Her face found its way between her knees again. “I can't tell you,” she repeated. “It's just not right.”

“Did Doujima make you promise to keep a secret, for her?” Robin shook her head. “Then, what's wrong?” She wouldn't answer. Fed up, Amon shoved his left hand into one pink bag, watching Robin tense up in horror. It took him a moment to discover the source of her embarrassment, as lace and satin greeted his fingers. Even without looking, his hands remembered lingerie in all its forms, and all the women he'd known to wear it, all of whom were now juxtaposed against Robin, which reminded him momentarily of that stifled, hot second looking at the girl wearing glasses in the porn shop, and—

“Oh,” he murmured, releasing the fabric carefully. He brought his hand out of the bag slowly, as if he'd been burned.

“Yes,” Robin said, her voice muffled by her knees. “It's awful.” If possible, she burrowed her head even further into her limbs, hiding behind her arms. Amon decided between sitting down and working this particular problem out, and bolting like a madman out the kitchen door. Truthfully, the latter seemed by far the more attractive solution. He sat down anyway.

“Why awful?” he asked gruffly.

Robin's head poked out above her arms. Only her wide green eyes were visible. “It's indecent! It's not proper!” Her brows furrowed. “Isn't it?”

He shrugged. “Don't look at me. What's acceptable is your decision.”

Robin brought her chin out then, and rested it on top of her arms. Her expression remained troubled. “It just seems so…vain…” she murmured.

“Doujima is vain,” Amon answered. This elicited a faint smile from Robin, and he began to think they were out of the woods, at least on this particular issue. “If you don't like what she gave you, don't use it. How will she know, one way or another?” Robin's smile broadened.

“I didn't think of that.” Robin was smiling to herself, but her eyes flicked over to his and then the smile seemed to be for him. It was a rare thing; Robin's day-to-day smile was more a brightening of her entire face than an actual movement of her mouth. He wondered suddenly when he'd first noticed that fact. He sighed.

“Doujima also forgets that you were raised in a convent, I think.”

Robin nodded emphatically. “You don't know the half of it…the things she was telling me…” Her face reddened and he watched her shrink into her shoulders again. “It was just…”

“Don't you go telling me any more about it, either,” Amon warned her. “That's my older brother.” Robin's color only deepened. Within, Amon allowed himself a smile. He wondered how exactly it was that the young woman he'd watched incinerate her enemies with such resolute tranquility could become so shy. He'd never seen quite this kind of behavior out of his partner in Witch Hunting before, and it was a little unnerving, to say the least. “Why don't you put these in your room, before I get curious about anything else?”

Robin shot him a look of pure adolescent terror and he almost regretted his words. But by the time he considered telling her that he was teasing (and he never, ever teased) she was out of the room, and half the bags were gone.