Disclaimer: I don't own Samurai Flamenco.
x
When Goto glanced into the alleyway, peered into the darkness, took a step forward - he saw the face of a man who looked impossibly sad.
"I'm no one suspicious", he had said.
x
"So, what were you doing out there?" He changed positions, uncrossing his legs. A little more relaxed. They were sitting in the most expensive flat he'd ever spent a night - part of a night - in; the horrid wallpaper, mismatching furniture, and overall feeling of emptiness did nothing for his growing headache. The magazine he had flipped through was carefully set onto the table. It was the only one in the room.
"I was fighting evil." While Hazama spoke, his expression deepened to a shade mirroring one of the depressed. There was nothing on the walls, or the tabletops; the couches were neatly arranged without a sign of them having been used. He must have just moved in. If not…
"The evil you were fighting was a drunk? You got into a fight with a drunk?" Goto sighed to himself, almost wondering what he was doing in his precious little free time. And Hazama's face changed; he was almost embarrassed. They didn't speak for a while, for a long while, and just when he was about to stand -
"What you burnt… was my flamenco dress. I was wearing it. He was smoking in a non-smoking zone, and moving towards a zone even more disrespectable than that." He looked away, just a little. Goto shouldn't have been moved.
x
He set down his now-empty water bottle, and went to the balcony for a smoke.
"Someone might have reported you," he voiced, taking a slow breath. Leaning against the railing. Hazama said nothing, just looked at him, almost as if he wasn't concerned - it was resignation, the policeman realised. The ashtray he used to stub out his cigarette was pristine. Summer was warm; his t-shirt was more than enough in the heat.
"…so give me your number."
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Blame Joltkun on the Samurai Flamenco LiveJournal community for this.