Disclaimer: I don't own Digimon.

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A/N: Surprisingly, I've written a Digimon one-shot that is not a Taito/TaiYama. However, it does feature my favourite Digi-parent, so—actually—this fic isn't that far out of my comfort zone xD

Sorry for my absence, but I've been busy with writing a research article, grant application, and preparing for a conference presentation. Thus, writing in my (limited) free time isn't very tempting…

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Yamato knew something was wrong even before he pulled his house keys out of his coat pocket. He didn't know what that something was, but he was about to find out.

The door opened surprisingly smoothly—no squeaking or stiffness. Cautiously, Yamato entered the apartment, toeing off his shoes.

"I'm home." He called out softly, afraid to startle something or someone with his voice.

"Yamato!" Hiroaki poked his head out from the kitchen, greeting his son with a somewhat nervous smile. "Welcome home."

Yamato stayed in the entrance, eyeing his father hesitantly; he wasn't too sure he wanted to know what was going on in that kitchen… However, he was bound to find out sooner or later, so might as well:

"What are you doing in the kitchen?" A cautious approach; his father could just be eating.

"I was cooking."

Okay, so not eating.

"Cooking?"

"Yes, cooking."

Yamato edged a bit further into the apartment, but did not dare to go into the kitchen.

"But I told you I'd be late coming home from band practice, and I left you a snack in the fridge to tide you over until I could cook a proper dinner."

"Yes, that's all true, and I remembered, and ate the snack."

Father and son stared at each other; one cautious, one grinning—albeit a bit nervously.

"…but?"

Hiroaki's grin turned to confusion. "But what?"

"You're supposed to be answering 'but what?'!"

Hiroaki shook his head. "No buts."

"But…" Yamato blinked owlishly at the man standing in front of him. "You can't cook!"

Hiroaki had the decency to look sheepish. "Yes, I know, but I also thought that I might know how to make something simple."

"…but?"

"But what?"

Yamato threw his head back, sending a quick prayer to the ceiling.

"But what did you break?"

"Break?" This time the elder Ishida blinked at his son. "I didn't break anything."

"Then what went wrong?"

There. It was out: the direct question.

Hiroaki's eyes dropped to the floor. He shuffled his feet and twisted his hands in each other, like a little kid that had been caught doing something naughty.

"Well…"

"Well?"

"I kind of ended up burning your apron."

Silence.

"You burnt my apron?"

"Yes."

"The pink one?"

"Yes."

"The one you got for me four years ago?"

"Yes."

"You burnt my pink apron?"

"Yes."

Silence again, as Yamato's eyes darted from his father's figure to the kitchen entrance.

"Is it salvageable?"

A shake of a head.

Yamato's shoulders dropped in defeat, as did his voice. "You burnt my pink apron."

"I'm sorry. But it's not like it's a horrible loss. That apron was awful. You got mad at me when I gave it to you, remember?"

"Yeah, but…"

"I would have thought you'd be happy: now you have a good excuse to get a new one. A nicer one. I'll get you a more suitable apron tomorrow."

Yamato still looked uncertain, hesitating slightly, before saying: "But the pink one was suitable. I liked it."

That stumped Hiroaki for a few seconds. "But it was a gag-gift."

Blue eyes dropped to stare at the floor. "Yeah, but it was still a gift, and I appreciated it."

"The new one will be a gift, too."

Yamato lifted a shoulder in a shrug. "But it's not really the same…"

Hiroaki crossed his arms over his chest, smiling at his son. "Are you trying to tell me you grew attached to that thing?"

"…kind of."

"'Kind of?'"

Yamato shrugged again. "Yeah, kind of."

"So it had sentimental value?"

Another shrug.

Smiling softly, Hiroaki strode over to his son, and pulled him into a hug. "I'm sorry. I just wanted to have dinner ready for you when you got home. We could have spent a bit more time together, if you didn't have to cook."

Yamato almost choked up at this; his father had been really busy recently, and they had barely seen each other for over a month. Things had finally calmed down at the TV station a few days ago, but Yamato had had band practice until late.

Hiroaki pulled back, hands on Yamato's shoulders. "I really am sorry about your apron."

With a wave of his hand, Yamato brushed the apology off; his father was just trying to be thoughtful. "Nah, don't worry about it. At least you didn't burn the entire apartment down."

Hiroaki laughed with his hands on his hips. "It did set the alarm off, but I quickly pulled the battery out. Otherwise the whole apartment complex would have had to be evacuated."

Yamato shook his head and finally moved into the kitchen. He surveyed the damage caused by his father's attempts at being thoughtful. It wasn't as bad as he had thought; the worst were the burnt remains of his faithful pink apron—mind you, it would take forever to get the ashes out of the carpet and all the crannies and nooks.

Heaving a sigh, Yamato moved to pull out the hoover from the cleaning cupboard. He almost crashed into his father's worriedly-hovering form when he went to plug the cleaner in.

"Can I help with anything?" Yamato gave him an incredulous look. "Fine, I won't try to help." Hiroaki let out a disappointed sigh. "I was really hoping to be able to spend some time with you… Guess by trying to save you some time, I just made your job even more tedious."

Yamato's hand paused on its way to the on button. He looked at his father. "If you're going to be home on time tomorrow, then we can spend some more time together; I don't have band practice."

The elder Ishida perked up at the thought. "I'll make sure to be home on time!"

Yamato smiled and turned on the hoover.

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