Love/Hate (Lemon GarouxReader 🍋)

Sleeping With Ghosts (Part 2)

Bang arrives at Hero Association headquarters. Asks for Sitch. The young woman with a sharp, pretty nose and glasses shows him through to a waiting room, all glass and steel, and says she will inform her boss immediately.
Bang sighs, too tired, too weary, and takes a seat on one of the modern-looking couches.
He questions himself. Was he wrong to put that much trust in his former pupil? Did he see something good that wasn't really there? Perhaps he had just wanted to see it. Believe that Garou had the capacity to change, just like he had once a long, long time ago.
Guilt is a funny thing.
When Garou had gone on his rampage at the start of the year, he had felt immense responsibility. Still feels it. The boy had been under his tutelage for years and he hadn't seen the trouble plaguing him, the chaos brewing in his young mind. Or perhaps he didn't want to see it? Reminded a little too much of his raucous younger self. He had reformed and prided himself on his dedication to his pupils...and then this young one came along, blowing everyone out of the water.
Perhaps Bang had been a little too lenient? A little too indulgent due to the boy's extraordinary natural talent? Well, what use is it now to-
"Silverfang."
Sitch's voice makes Bang lift his head, out of his thoughts.
Sitch stands over him, looking just as tired as Bang feels, and he's brought that youngblood Sekingar with him. This man is definitely a career climber. But Bang reserves his judgment for now. There are more pressing matters to attend to.
Bang looks at Sitch for a moment, a knowing gaze in his old eyes.
Sitch sighs, understanding the situation.
"Garou," he finally says.
Bang nods, a heavy responsibility on his shoulders.
"The Hero Hunter?" Sekingar clarifies, to make sure they are all on the same page. "Are you saying he's out there again."
Bang nods again, having nothing good to say for his former student.
Sitch paces up and down the room.
This wasn't his idea. He had always wanted Garou brought it, finding him much too dangerous, having witnessed his violence firsthand. But when Bang came with the offer, Sekingar reasoned it was the best option as it freed up Hero Association resources for more pressing matters, for dealing with this prophecy for one. He had faith Bang could keep this little punk under control. He was the one who persuaded Sitch to acquiesce to Bang's request and now look.
Sekingar considers his options carefully.
Sitch stops in the middle of the room, his frustration growing. There is no end to this.
"Put the bounty out on him again," he commands Sekingar.
"Can we really afford to have the heroes divert their-" Sekingar thinks out loud but Sitch is having none of it. They wouldn't be in this goddamn mess if they had listened to him the first time.
"Don't question it. Just do it!" He barks, so uncharacteristic of him, but the pressure of the last few weeks has been building, pushing him to his mental limits.
"There is no need," Bang stands up slowly. "He was my pupil and I will take responsibility."
Sitch turns on him a little more impatiently that he intended.
"That's what you said the first time and now here we are," he frowns. "Do you what you think is best, but I'm putting all heroes on alert." He turns to Sekingar before adding: "Get it done. Now!"
And Sekingar is diplomatic enough to know not to argue.
"Is there anything else?" Sitch rubs his exhausted eyes as he waits for Bang's response.
"No," Bang says. "I will take care of it."

The alert goes out. The Hero Hunter is to be brought in. Dead. Alive. Sitch doesn't give a damn anymore. As long as the problem is taken care of. In these circumstances, dead may be a better option.

Bang has one more visit to make that evening. To another dojo across town. Someone he hadn't seen in a little while.
"Brother," he greets the older man as the gates of the dojo open for him.
And from the storm brewing in Bang's eyes, Bomb knows something serious, something ominous has brought his little brother here.

That's enough reconnaissance, Garou thinks as he weaves down backstreets and alleys that same night. He's seen enough.
He can't keep the grin off his face. He's finally getting down to it. Will not back out this time. He will carry this through to the bitter end. This is where he always wanted to be, what he always wanted to be doing.
Well, the sleeping situation is a bit of a pain in the ass, roughing it on rooftops and dim corners but whatever, it's not for long. Does make him think of the comfort of you as he drifts off into a dreamless sleep, lets himself have those few moments, indulging in the warmth of reminiscence before shutting the world out.
In a way, it would have been better if he'd never met you. Never got so deep into this. Never faced this side of him. Never knew what it felt like to let someone in, this beautiful ecstasy, this burning pain. Never knew the pleasure of you because now... Now he has to deal with a whole new loss, new regrets, new guilt. All of it piling up inside.
And yet...another part of him knows he wouldn't have had it any other way. Would have relived this a thousand times, would rather have known you close and intimate and then lost you then never have known you at all. A strange detour in his life. This strange window where he got a taste of normality. Like a gift before giving himself over to a bigger purpose. His own sacrifice. Noble in his eyes.
Oh well.
He shrugs, a quick smile crossing his face as he thinks back.
It is what it is.
Oh well.
And he can shrug, he can 'oh well' all he wants, he can play along that it is what it is but something raw and hot and burning smoulders in the back of his mind, aches whenever his mind strays to those better days, those better days with you.
His smile begins to turn into a frown as the thoughts start to get the better of him, tangle and confuse him but luckily a sudden distraction snaps him out of it.
"Oh," a gruff voice chuckles somewhere to his right, just behind him. He wasn't even particularly paying attention to his surroundings, just letting his feet carry him to his intended location.
Garou pauses, but does not offer the politeness of turning around.
"You're that brat that paid a little visit to my dojo a while back while I was gone," the voice drawls confidently. "Had yourself a good time, didn't ya? Left me with a bit of a bill for the damages, this shitty little punk," the voice continues good naturedly and other voices join in with light mocking laughter.
A whole group, huh?
He'd just passed some hole in the wall bar or izakaya, the golden lights of the lanterns outside the entrance casting little pools of brightness in the otherwise black night. And damn, it smells good inside too. He hadn't eaten proper for a few days...Maybe he'll have to pop in after he's done here. No money has never been a problem before.
Garou finally turns around slowly, coming face to face with the group. The leader, the owner of the gruff voice, a solid looking barrel of a man in a dark blue yukata, a cigarette hanging from his thick lip, sunglasses on, a golden ring in one ear.
Who the fuck wears sunglasses at night? He seems almost like a caricature. A walking cliche. Which dojo was his? Ah, whatever. Doesn't matter. It was all the same mediocrity in the end. No one good enough to even pose a decent challenge.
"Yeah, sorry for not leaving my fuckin' address," Garou says, one hand on his hip, nothing but boredom.
"A smart little son of a bitch," the master chuckles again, stroking his tawny stubbled chin.
What dojo was this? Garou wonders, curious. There were so many...
"Well, since you're here now," he sighs and Garou just manages to get low to the ground as the fist suddenly comes for his head, almost whistling through the air with the power behind it.
Hmm. This might be worth his while. It's been some time since anyone had taken him by surprise.
The man may have the body of an ogre but moves fast, with intricate precision.
He definitely hasn't fought this motherfucker before. He would've remembered it. He may not be a hero but fuck it. Let him stretch his muscles. This sounds like fun.
"Get him, boss!" The voices echo nearby, the students cheering for their teacher.
Boss? What is this? Some sort of teenaged gang? Tch. No wonder he beat the shit out of them so easily, whoever they are. No respect, no discipline.
Garou takes a step back. Takes his stance.
He wasn't looking for this fight but it found him, and now that he's here he's more than happy to engage, having not been able to lay hands on anything better than shitty third rate monsters for months.
Garou cocks his head to the side, examining his opponent. His movements, yeah, now it's jogging his memory. His students were sloppy, the technique way off but he remembers the dojo. As pathetic as the rest of them.
"Still loyal to your teacher," the wannabe middle-aged gangster grins seeing Garou's position, recognising Fist of Flowing Water, Crushed Rock.
Garou finds himself scowling. It's just habit.
"Are you gonna keep yappin' or are you going to get revenge for your little dojo, eh?" He taunts.
The man seems to laugh along for a moment before dropping his expression to one of murderous rage and lunging at Garou again, feinting at the last moment.
Very good! How exciting! Garou moves out of the way, just. Finally! Someone who might take more than a moment to deal with.
Impressive this motherfucker can see much at all with these sunglasses on in the middle of the night.
Alright, that's enough dancing around. The next time the bulk of muscle comes at him, he strikes back, his fist connecting with his challenger's gut, but for that fraction of a moment he leaves himself open too and this man is lightning quick, taking the opportunity to smash his own meaty fist into the side of Garou's face before catching his breath and taking a stumbling step forward.
Garou touches the edge of his brow, unimpressed, feeling the familiar warm, sticky sensation of his own blood. Now this brings back memories. The smell of it almost enticing, stoking his own determination, his own bloodlust.
The students, a couple of whom did indeed experience Garou's violence first hand quieten down. It's the first time they witness their teacher winded. When Garou had come for them and they'd failed to protect their sacred ground, they justified it by their own lack of experience, but seeing the master unable to take care of this little twerp in one hit is a little troubling.
The fight continues, a little longer than usual. Garou lets himself take one or two more hits, studying, analysing his opponent with every move before turning the tables on him, using his own moves, faster, stronger, more fluid against him.
The commotion rises and the owner of the izakaya rushes outside, ready to chase off any troublemakers, but when he sees the bloody mess in front of him he reconsiders.
Garou looks up, done once and for all, seeing the old man, the chef staring at them dumbfounded, from Garou wiping away the blood off his mouth to the heap of muscle on the ground being pulled away by his followers, too afraid to challenge Garou for revenge after witnessing such a brutal takedown.
"Oi, old man," Garou turns to the frightened hobble-kneed chef. "You got any water. Somethin' hot would be nice too. I saved this place from these no good punks, see?" His smile is victorious, savage. And he feels right at home. Blood beginning to seep in and stain his precious memories, memories of you, of quieter, lovelier nights.