A/N: Written for the Digimon bingo – the non-flash version, #545 - item: whistle.
Whistle
He blows the whistle. The kids stop running. He blows it again. They start.
It's almost amusing. Takeru had called him a drill sergeant on more than one occasion, but that had all been way back when, when he'd been the Kaiser and drill sergeant had no endearing undertone. But these kids called him the same and he wouldn't be surprised if Takeru's son had started that little trend, copying from his old man. But they didn't mean the same. They called him a drill sergeant because his way of training them was regiment – but they all had fun anyway.
And that was how it should be. Everyone working hard, but everyone having fun.
Sometimes he wondered why this wasn't his day job.
But as nice as it was to watch happy kids playing around and trying to become the best in something, if he stays too is the sparkling scene becomes murky. If he stays too long, he'll remember another boy who'd started out like that and had then become obsessed – and perhaps obsessed was too kind a word but he'd lost the taste of being cruel to others and himself.
Sweet things are good in moderation anyhow, and every summer, tucked away at camp with Daisuke makes the sweet taste melt on his lips. It's not work that way; it's a break and it's the sort of break they all need.
He blows the whistle. The kids stop running. He blows it again. They start. He watches them all carefully. One more round. And then it's time for a break, time to stop.
Work never stops. And the sort of work he does especially never stops. Because people's emotions don't just screech to a halt. Because people's desires don't just screech to a halt.
And it's not just people anymore either.
He smiles slightly as he watches a Gomamon try to kick the ball, give up, and head-butt it instead.
The kids are still running. He blows the whistle a final time for that drill and they stop.
'Striking drills!' he called, and there was an excited murmur as they lined up.
A drill sergeant doesn't typically like murmurs, but he's not a typical drill sergeant so he doesn't mind. The murmurs don't hurt anyhow. And he knows what it's like to keep them squashed.
That's why, sometimes, he can't help but feel a little sad when someone or other he's leading away bound by cuffs exercises their right to remain silent. They should talk too. They can. He doesn't mind trying to understand what drove them here even though it tears bits of skin away – because it tears at him anyway, whether they tell or not. And he'd much rather have the wounds and knowledge than their silence nowadays.
So he listens to the murmurs, even though they're not as weighty, even though they only tell of happy things. But that's fine. Happy things are fine. This is vacation after all. All of them having fun, but still trying hard at something. For him, imparting some of his soccer training to these children. For them, learning from him.
He blows the whistle again: the start of a new exercise and the murmurs are filled with countdowns and cheers. And he smiles along with them and, for the three weeks of summer holidays (his holidays, not the kids), he doesn't think about the trickle of people in and out of jails, and the cases that'll be waiting when he returns.