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Albatross’s expression falls the moment Chuuya’s apartment door slams in his face. The exuberance falls to the dull gray carpet without acknowledgement or grandeur. The two of them had managed a job that could have been completed with a mere flick of Chuuya’s thin wrist. A snap of his fingers. If nothing else, the instinct to hide his gravitational Ability from Albatross, of all people, was a stark reminder of the pertinence of their current mission.
“Goodbye, neighbor!” he shouts at the door with that same forced energy he’d been carting all evening, from the alley where he’d approached Chuuya as a stranger to the izakaya that Chuuya doesn’t remember having his first tastes of good rum at, years ago.
“Go home, jackass!” Chuuya’s shout echoes through the walls. It pulls a shadow of a smirk from Albatross’s grimmer expression: at least the amnesia Ability hadn’t completely reset Chuuya’s delightful personality.
Fuck, what Albatross wouldn’t give to jump on his beautiful motorbike and go home right now. His neck is killing him. Chuuya would have called him old for it.
But the night’s only just begun.
After much deliberation, Piano Man had decided that their reconnaissance would be in a false dimension only accessible from the roof of this apartment complex. Albatross doesn’t really get why proximity would be so important during this mission, but he’s long learned not to question the things he doesn’t quite understand. He’ll leave that to Iceman, whose dissent still leaves him grumpy as hell despite any of Albatross’s quips and stunts.
The base is decorated in the same perfunctory and militaristic way that mafia hideouts are usually stocked. The only shock of color is a set of blood-red couches in the middle of the room. Everything else, from the kitchenette fixtures to the small coffee table between the couches, is a nauseating off-white that was popular long before Albatross was born.
The air in the base is cold and silent. Sterile, in that way that hospitals are in the middle of the night and no one comes to check that you’re still alive.
Iceman sits on the couch facing away from Albatross. His shock of curly brown hair is pulled back from the scar that runs across his right eye, and between drags from the waning cigarette between his fingers he’s applying that scar gel across his irritated face.
But of course, a professional hitman always knows when his solace is disturbed. Iceman doesn’t adjust from the couch or stop his methodical application. It’s a form of trust, either that Albatross cannot do anything to him like this, or that he won’t.
The truth of it doesn’t keep Albatross from feeling insulted.
“Hey, does that shit work for any muscle? I’ve got a crick in my neck that’s killing me after moving all of the kid’s stuff,” he asks, just to get a rise out of the famously stoic man.
Iceman doesn’t say anything in response, but he does take a deep drag from his cigarette. The jerk.
“I’m sure Doc can get you something much tastier than that, if you’re up for it!” Lippmann suddenly emerges from behind Albatross. They’ve all arrived back at base at the same time, it seems. Lippmann is already loosening his cufflinks and rolling up his pristine white sleeves. His suit jacket has long been surrendered to the zombie-like android on his tail, who holds the coat like it’s nothing less than the finest jewels in all of Arabia.
Albatross snarls at the implication, but soon tempers his irritation with a habitual sweep of a hand through his hair. The braid is going to fall out entirely, at some point soon.
“I hate talking to you. Go bother Dazai if you’re still doped up from the shoot. I don’t have the patience for your stupid face,” he mutters darkly as he walks to the couch to lay himself bodily across the back in exhaustion.
Lippmann is removing his other expensive jewelry at the sad excuse of a wash closet mirror when he hesitates, “Osamu-kun is here? That certainly surprises me.”
It’s obvious that he’s not surprised, that he’s fishing for the information that Albatross knows, but damn Albatross’s stupid mouth for falling for it before he can tell it to keep still.
“He’s set himself up in the apartment next door. Talk about proximity to the target… Dazai’s practically on top of him!”
Iceman silently snubs his cigarette out in the ashtray on the table. The android freak by the door, Adam, makes a noise that would suspiciously sound like a cough if Albatross wasn’t keenly aware of the fact that the guy didn’t need to breathe in the first place.
Lippman smiles at his reflection. “I see. Osamu-kun must be worried.”
The silence that had been frigid and clinical is now heavy with awkwardness. Emotions like concern are a weakness to be exploited in their line of work, after all, but they’re harder to lorde over someone when they’re the same emotions that keep you vigilant in such a low-priority mission like this.
“I thought I told you to leave,” Albatross says eventually. He slinks away toward the kitchenette as an excuse to do something with his hands, but the action just brings him face-to-face with the awkward android. He doesn’t look Adam in the eye, doesn’t need to.
“I’m not high, Albatross, I’m just fucking with you after a long day. Get Iceman another smoke.”
The tap turns, and lukewarm water flows. Albatross has to search for a glass to get himself water, which is a much more acceptable level of annoyance than anything happening in the room behind his back.
“I don’t need another,” Iceman says deeply. He’s closed the tin of cream and stashed it in his lapels by now. The remnants of the smelly concoction rub into the creases of his worn skin as he thoughtlessly wrings his hands together.
“Piano Man has a lead. You’re to relieve Doc in two hours,” Lippmann answers just as deeply. He’s done removing his accessories and letting his hair down. He’s no less stunning like this, no longer draped in designer brands and makeup, but there’s a gravity that settles over his shoulders as the movie star fades away and the mafioso takes over. “We need you at your best. Chuuya needs you, Iceman.”
From the corner of his eye, Albatross sees Adam shift from one foot to the other. Curious, that this outsider would give so many human tells despite never having been one.
The silence lingers for a beat too long, but they all let it. That’s simply the way with Iceman, and they’ve all learned to read it rather than interrupt it, over the years.
Well, all of the Flags have learned, except one. Notably, the one who doesn’t remember his membership in such a band of young misfits.
“Got anything stronger, then?” Iceman finally says. His stoic expression crinkles in his unique approximation of a smile.
Lippmann smiles back, bright and wide and deadly.
“Absolutely.”