Disclaimer: I don't own them, they're not mine.

Author's Notes:Okay- this ficcie's based on "Something's Gotten Hold Of My Heart" by Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds. These guys rock- haunting melodies with a voice that reaches down into your viscera and grabs while it strokes. It's not just a band- it's an experience, let me tell you. Go here: http://www.angelfire.com/sd/BadSeed/NickCave.html for more info.
I place responsibility for my new obsession with Warlord ficcing directly at the feet of llamajoy and her quartet of beautifully written masterpieces. Visit her and Tenchi (another author to make you go UNNNHH) at Bishonenink. It is yummy.

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~Something's gotten hold of my heart

Keeping my soul and my senses apart~

The sound of deep, steady breathing drowned his awareness until his world was focused solely on that one act of life. The smooth muscles rippling beneath his hand, contracting and expelling air so gently, sustaining the throbbing heartbeat under his palm. The indrawn breath teasing his ear, reminding him of the supple flesh pressed so sweetly against the crook of his neck. A quiet sigh warmed his neck, an unconscious swallow brought velvety lips even closer.

Rayjura couldn't possibly realize the power he possessed- just one light caress of the Gen Masho's pale, translucent skin and Naaza was left aching for more. He could spend hours running his fingers over the delicate flesh, feeling the silken texture with his sensitive fingertips and burrowing himself in the clean musk Rayjura was naturally fragranced with. This was gluttony, the feel of soft downy hairs and pliant skin over hard muscles. To be wrapped completely in such a heady sensation could make a man forget the outside world, everything.

Perfection. He held perfection in his arms. It felt so right to have this warm, vibrant body fitted snugly against his side, embracing him tightly even in deep slumber. This was what had been missing. The need to draw in the warmth like a snake basking on a rock in the sun, to feel the cool weight of long white hair flung across his chest, to not be alone in the night and to wake up finding a smiling angel of death staring back at him.

Even Rayjura's missing eye did not detract from his grace, instead enhancing the smoky blue of the other untouched orb. He ran a finger tenderly over the limp socket, questing like a blind man to memorize every tactile sensation encountered. That his light touch did not disturb the sorcerer's sleep heartened him. It seemed as though even Rayjura's subconscious did not perceive him as a threat, and that evidence of trust thawed his icy soul far more than any fire.

Was this contentment swelling in his body, suffusing his skin with warmth? For the first time since Arago, Naaza felt truly relaxed. Always there had been that pressure in his chest, the phantoms lurking in his dreams, chilling reminders of his old master. A chance shadow across the entrance of his garage would have him tensed for confrontation, waiting stock still for that reverberating mental voice to summon him.

Arago had been able to draw his soul at whim; the tightening of a black band around his spirit demanded obedience. His yoroi was only too happy to comply and he allowed the chains to be forged in his lust for power and superiority. Doku thrived under Arago's direction, servile to the one who would find release for the blood lust simmering beneath its poisonous surface. He, like the fool he was, had blindly followed its lead and there was no excuse for his actions. He had succumbed to his own depravity, had wallowed in it even, just as he had willingly carried out his master's wishes, nevermind the grief it wrought on others.

The feelings of violation and pain, humiliation and shame, had haunted him for five years. The laughing spectre of decay had never been far from his thoughts. Some nights he would wake himself shouting at wraiths of the long dead- only to find himself in a cold bed shivering beneath the covers. Perhaps he had been just the same as Rayjura with his wallowing in self-pity and hatred. It seemed now like a shallow way to exist.

The past can never be changed, only dulled with the wear of time like a river tumbling stones in its rocky bed. He knew what he had done and had experienced the horror of realization, but lately it seemed as though he had found some sense of acceptance. Half a decade ago, his mad insanity had been replaced by bitterness and self-loathing. Perhaps his soul was ready for understanding and peace.

He laid now spent after a prolonged bout of love-making, a sated feeling weighing heavy in his gut. Such deep reflections always came to him in that haze between sleep and waking, but they could wait until another time. Holding Rayjura closer, he let his eyes drift shut. He had been dead for over four hundred years; now he just wanted to live.

There were no nightmares that night.

~Something's gotten into my life

Cutting its way through my dreams like a knife

Turning me up and turning me down

Making me smile and making me frown~

Amazing how something as innocuous and simple as a toothbrush could bring a smile to his face. A bright purple Reach flexigrip sitting next to his obnoxious yellow Pokemon one.

*What a stupid whim that was, but at least I get to chew on Pikachu's head every morning.* Naaza snorted at his reflection, unable to rid himself of the idiotic grin. *It's just a damn toothbrush! Not like it's anything important. . .*

One of the most feared warriors of the Netherrealm reduced to school-girl giddiness at the sight of an instrument of personal hygiene.

*But it means he's planning on staying. He ~wants~ to stay. With me. In my home.*

The perky little Pikachu was mocking him.

He was the bearer of Doku, ruthless and cunning. But his armor could also heal and save. His entire identity was in the process of being overhauled and all he could think of was when they bought that stupid toothbrush.

*I disgust myself.* But he was still smiling.

~

Rayjura had been uncomfortable in the small store, having returned to the mortal world only the day before. Clad in a pair of Naaza's blue jeans that were two sizes too large and a worn black shirt that was equally big, he would have looked like a Dickensian waif if it wasn't for the glower hidden by borrowed sunglasses. As Naaza shopped for him, idly commenting on available items under his breath, he paid little attention while nervously tugging on the long sleeves until they were stretched over his knuckles.

"Are we done yet?" His impatient whisper cut through Naaza's muttering.

"Huh?" Real intelligent, but he had been distracted by the slender fingers manipulating well-worn cotton. Ridiculous to feel jealous of a shirt, but the sexual tension was killing him. It was understandable that Rayjura was a little hesitant to just fall into bed with him after the ordeal he recently went through, but dammit, he was frustrated here!And now that the Gen Masho was staying at his place. . . He might as well impale himself on his own katana.

"I said-" Rayjura shifted closer, near enough for the smell of shampoo and soap and musk to waft past his nose and send a shaft of desire straight to his groin. He struggled to focus on his lips, but that proved even more torturous. "Are we done yet? I would like to leave now."

"Only need a few more things. Why?" An eyebrow quirked up of its own accord. If he didn't know better, he would think Rayjura was nervous.

"No reason. . ." Cheeks looking decidedly flush, Rayjura fidgeted with the dental floss display in front of him. The eyebrow went higher. "It's just that people are staring. . ."

"Oh?" Naaza cast a surreptitious glance around. Sure enough, there were three or four women dawdling along their aisle that had been in the last one as well. One was openly admiring the two of them as she pretended to read the back of a toothpaste carton. Odd. Well, not really considering that he was having a hard time not staring at the Gen Masho himself. He grew little devil horns. Maybe just a little bit of payback; something to get him thinking more along Naaza's lines.

"I ~would~ say that they're just staring at your cute ass, but in those jeans it's hard to see exactly how. . . firm. . .it is. Maybe it's your hair?" Naaza's look was innocent enough, but his voice was a touch louder so that it carried down the aisle. It certainly drew attention and a few titters from the deoderant section.

Rayjura spluttered and turned crimson.

"Not that I blame them," Naaza added sincerely.

"Are we done yet?" The Warlord of Illusion ground out, refusing to meet his eyes. His pale cheeks were stained pink, sleeves of the borrowed shirt firmly clenched in angry fists.

"Choose a toothbrush." The modern array of choices was mind-boggling. Rayjura looked for a second in confusion.

"I don't really care that much?"

"Just choose one that looks cool." Naaza demonstrated by grabbing the garish Pokemon merchandise and tossing it in their basket. Rayjura chose the purple Reach and gently placed it next to Pikachu, still put out with his teasing. Naaza felt the devil rise again.

"Now- last but most important." Turning, he walked past the toothpaste lady with a wink. "We still need more lube," he called back to a mortified Rayjura.

~

Naaza rubbed his freshly shaven jaw, the bruise long since faded from his cheek bone, and rolled his eyes. Rayjura could get ~sooo~ overemotional sometimes. Then he smiled mockingly at his reflection. Like he was one to talk.

The morning light had not dispelled the previous night's contentment. Now that he consciously realized the feelings that had been creeping into his soul the past few weeks, he felt different. Like a cobra shedding his skin. Not exactly a Light and Fluffy version, but definitely happier.

Happy. He snorted again. A word not readily associated with Doku. But he was no longer a Warlord. He was just. . . Naaza. And even after four centuries he barely knew himself, could just almost remember where he came from. But the man he was born to be had died before his eighteenth birthday, and left this green-haired, pale-eyed killer in his place. Born in death. Those he loved in his mortal life had departed this plane the day he made his choice, and Naaza had risen from their ashes.

But now was not the time for sketchy recollections; he was going to be late for work and the employee scheduled this morning, Haruka, had already called in late.

Pausing in the doorway, he took a moment to study the angel tangled in his sheets. Long hair deliciously mussed, slender arms tucked around his chest as though trying to hug some phantom lover to him. He was a study of black and white, pale skin in stark contrast to the black silk, just begging to be stroked into consciousness.

Naaza dressed quickly in his garage clothes- mainly jeans and a t-shirt- and gently kissed Rayjura's sleep-soft lips. Stirring slightly, he opened a pale blue eye lazily and murmured something, probably an endearment, then his breathing evened out once more in slumber.

Showing a surprising amount of discipline, Naaza left his apartment and headed down to the garage below without ravaging his housemate. Sunlight was harsh on his eyes after the dim light of the bedroom, pulling him abruptly from his licentious thoughts. For not the first time in the past weeks, Naaza found himself looking forward more to going home at night than arriving at work.

***

It might have been lunchtime, but he wasn't paying attention. One advantage of his warrior training was that he could work for hours on end without faltering. His two employees, on the other hand, had different ideas.

"Oi, Boss!" Akira swung around the doorway of his office, unmindful of the grease and grit following in his wake. "Haruka wants us to go to lunch."

"Does he now?" Naaza leveled a look at the college student. Akira only worked part-time while he went to the nearby university, so Naaza had the say on whether his short shifts included a mealbreak. It was a running joke between the men of the shop that whenever Akira wanted lunch, it was Haruka the Workaholic's idea.

The snort that came from under the hood of a nearby car wasn't exactly heartening for the cause.

"If you're going, go." Naaza hid his smirk behind a late account's paperwork.

"Yes!" Catching himself on the door frame, Akira turned quickly before running out. "Ya shoulda fallen in love sooner, Boss- I like this mellow side!"

Before Naaza could reply (or retaliate), Akira was out the door and off to the washroom. Staring at the empty space, Naaza's forehead creased in a frown of contemplation.

"Don't think too hard on it, kid." Haruka paused casually in the doorway, wiping his hands on a rag. The grizzled mechanic had taken to calling him 'kid' when he first came to work at the shop, and continued to do so even now that he owned it. Naaza had first scowled and gotten his hackles up over it, but over the years had become affectionately resigned to his nickname.

"Too hard on what?" Naaza dismissed his preoccupation and turned back to the invoices on his desk.

"This whole love thing. Either it's there or it's not. Simple as that."

Once again Naaza was left staring at an empty doorway. Maybe his staff was getting too familiar with him. . .

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