Important Treasures

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Short and sweet oneshot/drabble written for my friend Gin because she'd been going through some hard times. I may or may not continue this. We'll have to wait and see.

If you don't know the condition Fujitaka found Syaoran in, then this contains small spoilers for episode 12/chapters 22 and 23.

As always, comments and criticisms are appreciated.

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Fujitaka had no idea how to be a father. In fact, he'd never really put any true thought into it. If he found a woman who he could love, and who could accept that his occupation would keep them apart for long stretches of time, he didn't think he'd have any problem settling down.

Of course, being as busy as he was, he'd never managed to find that woman.

He'd found a son, instead.

The night had been cold and damp, rain still dribbling down periodically. His feet had been soaked, his pants wet up to the knee from stepping in unavoidable puddles. It was during one of the many (many) time's he'd stopped to wring his clothing out that he'd spotted the child. The boy was huddled against himself, so small and inconspicuous against the wall that Fujitaka'd mistaken him for a random shadow.

Curiosity was not in short supply around Fujitaka, and like any strange find he'd dug up, he approached the child with a mixture or wariness and excitement. The boy was bandaged, bedraggled and an absolute mess. Fujitaka gave himself all of two seconds to wonder where the child's parents were, but seeing the half-destroyed clothes and the dead look in the boy's eyes (Eye, even. Goodness, what had happened to the poor boy?), concluded the child had none.

"Hello?" When confronting something of unknown origin, always use civility and caution. Especially in an instance such as the one Fujitaka found himself in. He made his way closer to the boy, kneeling down in the muck and grime along the side of the road and making himself level with the child.

The boy looked back blankly.

"Do you have a name, child?" Fujitaka had tried next, completely unsure of how to handle this situation. He dealt with things long dead and buried, not with half-dead children in the now. "My name is Fujitaka."

The boy continued to stare forward.

Fujitaka frowned, leaning back on his heels. Either the child didn't understand him, was too frightened to answer, or was so far gone he couldn't. The tiny hands clutched the tattered fabric of the pants, and his narrow shoulders shook just the slightest bit. The older man smiled sadly and shrugged out of his coat, moving slightly to the side and draping the heavy cloth over the boy.

"Here, this will make you warm."

The boy slowly (so slowly), turned his head, tilting it a bit to the side as he looked at Fujitaka. A strange urge came over him, and suddenly the older man found himself reaching forward and brushing the boy's hair away from his eyes, patting the wet mass down gently.

It was in that touch that he knew.

The child had looked at him, expression never changing, but in that moment Fujitaka knew that he'd just found the most precious thing in his life.

He named the boy Syaoran. He didn't know why, just that the name felt right. As though something told him that was the boy's name. For his part, Syaoran didn't seem to care either way, despite having confessed to not knowing who he was before being found. But he was a quick learner, eager to find out anything and everything he could, and Fujitaka loved him all the more for it. Syaoran read all the books Fujitaka did (or tried to, anyway. Half the time Fujitaka read them to him as bedtime stories), went to digs and excavations, and took in everything his adoptive father had to say as the pure, unmitigated proof.

Sometimes, after tucking Syaoran in at night, he wondered if he was doing the right things, raising this child right. He had no previous knowledge, nothing at all to help him. All he knew was history and cultures, how to read and write and piece together artifacts. As a scholar, he was one of the brightest and best of his field.

But as a father…?

All his doubts were erased, however, the first time Syaoran came home and called him "father." The older man had stopped, nearly dropping the bowl he held. Syaoran looked up at him with that too-serious face, eyes piercing. When he received no response, the piercing look died just a little, the expression turning that much to sadness.

"Was I wrong?"

Fujitaka finally found his voice, kneeling down and pulling the child he'd had for all of four months into a hug. He wondered briefly who was shaking more—Syaoran or him.

"No, Syaoran." My son. "You weren't wrong at all."

Syaoran sighed softly and wrapped his own arms around his father's waist. And Fujitaka's knees began to hurt, and his lower back cramped up, but he refused to move until Syaoran himself moved, pulling away and rubbing his eyes.

"Would you like to help me with dinner, Syaoran?" My son.

"Yes, Fujita-- Father."

And as he tucked his adopted son in that night, the history of the Clow Ruins tucked in next to him (Syaoran fell asleep during a particularly interesting discussion on the possible meaning behind the Ruins), Fujitaka smiled and brushed the young boy's hair out of his eyes.

Fujitaka had no idea how to be a father.

But he wasn't going to let that stop him.