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In Sheeps Clothing

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"Katsuki."

 

Yuuri froze, turning to look warily over his shoulder. Yakov stood in the door of his office, face sour and a finger crooked demandingly as he summoned the Japanese man into the bowels of his inner sanctum.

 

Nobody went into that office if they could avoid it; nothing good ever came out of being summoned into that particular pit of despair.

 

Yuuri glanced at the exit, debating for a split second if it was worth trying to make a run for it.

 

"I know where you live, Katsuki, do not make me come after you."

 

With a wince and hunched shoulders, Yuuri accepted his fate, and slunk after the Russian skating troll.

 

He stood in the office nervously, desperately avoiding eye contact as the door shut behind him with an ominous thud. He wondered vaguely if this was how people used to feel when facing the guillotine.

 

Watching in terror as the older man sat behind his imposing desk, he heard a drawer being opened. Oh no. This was it. He'd been caught beating the shit out of Alexi, and was going to be banned from skating ever again. He didn't regret defending Mila, but he couldn't help but mourn the career he might have had under Viktor's tutelage. Viktor. Oh no, his lover would be absolutely devastated! If Yuuri couldn't skate anymore, his visa would be cancelled and he'd be deported back to Japan, and he'd never see his fiancé again. He'd be a national disgrace, he'd have to change his name, and disown himself from his family to save them the shame of being associated with him.

 

His vision started to grey as he began hyperventilating.

 

Yakov reached into the bottom drawer of his desk and pulled out two shot glasses and a bottle of very nice Vodka, pouring it neatly and pushing one glass towards the terrified skater. 

 

"Sit."

 

Yuuri sat.

 

"Drink."

 

Yuuri drank.

 

Yuuri also choked, coughing and bringing a fist to his chest as the alcohol burned its way down his throat.

 

Smirking, Yakov tossed back his own drink without a wince.

 

"Still not used to real Vodka, I see. Let me guess, Vitya has just been giving you whatever swill he has at the back of his cupboard that people have gifted him?" Seeing Yuuri's wide eyed (and still somewhat watery) look, he shook his head. "Don't worry. We'll make a Russian of you yet."

 

Yuuri made an indeterminate noise that could probably be taken as interested agreement, but may also have been a wheeze of pain from his abused oesophagus.

 

"You wanted to see me, sir?"

 

Yuuri pulled the sleeves of his jacket over his hands, worrying the hem with his fingers. His legs were pressed tightly together, everything about his posture screaming his anxiety at the situation.

 

With a heavy sigh, Yakov sat back in his chair and eyed the man who had very quickly become his favourite student. For all that Viktor was officially his coach, the small Japanese man had always been unfailing polite and grateful for any titbits of advice the older coach was willing to offer.

 

"I wanted to thank you," he began. "That meathead hockey player has been a thorn in my side for far too long. I wanted to deal with him back when he and Mila were dating, but I could never gather enough evidence to have him banned from the rink. I'm glad someone had the opportunity to beat some manners into the slimy little suka."

 

Yuuri blinked at Yakov, and gratefully tossed back a second shot of vodka.

 

"Ah, I don't know what you're talking about, sir?" He choked out, his throat and stomach protesting the neat vodka in ways they hadn't since his college days.

 

Yakov snorted, his lips twitching slightly as he poured himself another drink.

 

"Of course you don't." He tapped the side of his nose, knowingly. "I'll see to it nobody else does either. The security cameras in that hall are always going on the fritz after all."

 

Yuuri smiled sickly, but nodded his thanks as he stood to leave.

 

"Oh, and Katsuki? Watch your trailing leg when you take off for the Quad Salchow; you've been throwing it too high and it's tipping your balance."

 

Yuuri looked up, with hope in his eyes.

 

"You mean I can still skate here?"

 

Yakov scowled in annoyance.

 

"Listen, I've been training Vitya since he was seven years old, and you're the only one that can keep him under some kind of control. If you think I'm letting you go and making him my problem again, you've got another thing coming!"

 


 

 

Later, Yuuri would think back on this moment and be shocked that he managed to escape with so few injuries.

 

He landed with a grunt, the deep shadows of the alley he'd been dragged into blinding him momentarily and making it impossible to see his attacker. As his vision cleared, he could make out the shape of dumpsters, and what looked like an assortment of decrepit cleaning equipment abandoned next to them. There was a variety of other miscellaneous trash strewn around, but what really caught his attention was what looked like a wall of human muscle.

 

This wasn't going to end well.

 


 

 

Dodging a punch by diving to the right, the slender Japanese man grabbed the first thing that came into reach - an old hand towel - and flung it at the closest opponent. Seeing it wrap across the man's face, he pressed his advantage and followed it up with a fist to the gut, then dropped low and kicked a leg out, nailing another opponent in the groin when they attempted to grab him from behind.

 

Rolling, he scrambled to his feet, grabbing one of his attackers and twisting him, using the man to take a blow that would have driven the air from Yuuri's lungs.

 

"What the fuck, Sergei! You said this little Jap twink would be easy to deal with! I didn't sign up for this kung fu bullshit!" One of the attackers snarled at the leader of the group.

 

Sergei sneered, watching as the rest of the group he'd gathered launched themselves at Viktor's foreign pet. He'd seen what the man had done to Alexi, he wasn't going to be getting any closer until the rest of the boys had softened him up a bit. Sure, Alexi was an arsehole, but that didn't mean that someone beating seven shades of shit out of him would be overlooked.

 

"Firstly, Valentin, that's not fucking kung fu, he's just quick because of all that faggy dancing shit; and secondly if you don't get your arse in there, I will beat you along with that little Japanese fairy!"

 

Valentin shook his head, raising his hands.

 

"No way may. I'm out. I won't say anything, but I'm not going near that guy. He's fucking crazy, and Alexi was probably asking for it anyway!" Turning on his heel, he exited the alley before Sergei could toss him bodily into the fray.

 


 

 

It was a flurry, with no time to plan or make any sort of exit strategy. Yuuri ducked and tumbled, striking out with fists and feet and any object that came within reach. Finding himself fending off three opponents with a ratty old mop, he spared a hysterical moment to be thankful for Phichit's Jackie Chan fixation. Honestly, he was just grateful that it wasn’t Meathead's entire team that had decided to 'teach him a lesson', so rather than dealing with nineteen people intent on pummelling him into the pavement, he only had to deal with eight. Nine? It was a little hard to keep track when they kept moving so much.

 

He threw the mop, grabbing up a broken fold up chair, and smashed it over the back of the nearest guy, before taking advantage of his balletic flexibility to kick another in the head. They both went down with a groan, and Yuuri moved on before they could find the wherewithal to get up again.

 

Feeling the sweat threatening to run into his eyes and blind him, he leapt away from a charging bull of a man and jumped up onto a dumpster, quickly swiping his arm across his forehead even as he kicked Bull Man in the face. He felt his ankle twinge, and winced. Viktor was going to flip out if he got hurt.

 

Seeing two more Hockey Heads lunging towards him, Yuuri dove at them, tackling them to the ground and cushioning his fall with their bodies. He grimaced as he felt his knee slam into the hard cement, but on the plus side, so did their heads, so he considered that a win.

 

Leaping to his feet, he looked around wildly, only to see an alley full of groaning or unconscious bodies. Quickly straightening his clothes and wiping the sweat off his face, he picked up his skating bag (that he'd thrown at someone's head, skates and all) and hurried toward the street only to find himself tumbling head first into a dug up section of the pavement.

 

Right, they were relaying this section after fixing a broken pipe.

 

He grimaced, wiping the blood from his now broken nose even as he pulled his fractured glasses from his face and dragged himself out of the ditch. Bloody wonderful; he could walk away from being jumped with barely more than a few scuffs and bruises, but a sidewalk was enough to give him his worst injuries outside of an ice rink in years.

 

Four figures loomed over him, and he tensed, but quickly relaxed when he realised that it was Yuri, Georgi, Mila, and unexpectedly, Yakov.

 

"Are you ok, Yuuri?" Mila fretted, reaching out and wiping a little blood from his face.

 

"I'll take care of everything here," Yakov grunted. "Go get yourself cleaned up. I'll take you to give a police statement tomorrow while Vitya is busy."

 

Yuuri nodded gratefully, and let Georgi and Mila usher him into their car, with the blond Ice Tiger trailing along behind them, smirking viciously at something on his phone.

 

A shower and some ice on his knee and ankle later, Yuuri frowned at his phone. There was now a large crack across the screen, likely from when he was first grabbed and dumped on his arse in the alley before the fight. He sighed, sending a quick message to Viktor letting him know that he was fine but would be home a little late.

 

"Oi, Katsudon," Yuri smirked, dropping down onto the couch next to him. "Check this out." He shoved his own phone into the Japanese man's hands and tapped the play button on the queued video.

 

Yuuri's eyes widened as he watched himself single handedly fight off what was apparently twelve opponents with whatever rubbish he could grab.

 

"Gotta say," Mila cooed, leaning over their shoulders to watch the video, "if you weren't taken, I'd so be trying my luck with you. That is very hot."

 

Georgi, leaning over their other shoulder nodded in agreement.

 

"I prefer the gentler sex myself, but I think I would turn gay for you. There's just something about the way you hand their arses to them that makes me consider offering up my own."

 

Yuri gagged and snatched his phone back, stomping towards the door and shouting.

 

"That's disgusting! Why would you even say that?! I need to go find some brain bleach now; I will never get that image out of my head!"

 

Yuuri himself was bright red, his face buried in his scraped and bruised hands as he prayed desperately for the earth to swallow him up.

 

"Please stop," he begged.

 

Taking pity on him, Mila laughed and helped him stand.

 

"Alright, alright. Let's get you home to your man. I hope you have a good story prepared."

 


 

 

"Yuuri, lyubov moya! What happened to you? Are you alright?" Viktor fluttered around Yuuri, helping him remove his jacket and shoes and slide his house slippers on, as Mila leant her shoulder to the injured man to keep him upright.

 

"I'm fine, Viktor, I promise," Yuuri soothed, completely ineffectually since he was forced to limp to the couch, his knee and ankle bruising badly and refusing to take his full weight.

 

"What happened?!" Viktor was frantic, snatching ice packs from the freezer and bringing them over, helping Yuuri carefully prop his leg up on the large well cushioned footstool they had for that exact purpose, given their propensity for skating injuries.

 

"I got jumped by half a hockey team who were upset with me beating up their friend," Yuuri replied honestly, his face flushing as he chewed his bottom lip sheepishly. "I fought them off, but got a little banged up in the process."

 

Viktor smiled, despite his worry.

 

"That's a good story, you should tell that one at the rink when people ask. Let me guess, you tripped on that section of the footpath that's being repaved near the rink?"

 

Yuuri crossed his arms self-consciously.

 

"That too, but-"

 

"I tripped there too, nearly killed myself falling into the ditch where they were relaying piping. You really should be more careful, zolotse. It's not like you to be so clumsy. Are you tired? You look tired. Have I been working you too hard? I have, haven't I," the silver haired Russian babbled, even as he waved Mila out the door, too fixated on his injured fiancé to notice her barely concealed guffaws.

 

He strode to the kitchen to make some of the green tea that the Katsuki family sent them each month, since it was impossible to find in Russia.

 

"My poor Yuuri. Don't worry, I'll call Yakov and tell him that you won't be in tomorrow or the day after. I'm your coach after all, it's my job to look after you."

 

Yuuri sat on the couch, too stunned to interrupt. He'd finally worked up the courage to tell Viktor the truth…

 

Nobody was ever going to believe this.