A/N: Don't kill me!
This is the first part of a two-chapter update (in which both are interludes, sadly), so make sure you don't skip this one! Enjoy!
Casalinga
INTERLUDE
If time were gold, then time off work might as well have been a gold mine.
But Iemitsu wasn't very familiar with the concept of time off work.
No, don't take him wrong—he had many things to do (err, kill?) on a daily basis, and so little time to himself because there were simply too much to be done. He knew how to appreciate a short vacation, a small recess, in theory. It was primarily what he would often obnoxiously complain to his subordinates, who in turn would suffer through his tirades with irritated (but mostly fond) exasperation.
But oddly enough, when a break did come around the corner—and how his men would rejoice—the CEDEF head often found himself stumped on what to do with all the ticking moments of free time. As the core members of CEDEF would file out, telling him where they would go and what they would do, inviting him to come along with them, he would jokingly decline their offers and make up some farce about "catching up on sleep" or "having a drink alone".
He couldn't call Nana. The timezones were different, and he wasn't cruel enough to take his lovely wife from the time of rest and dining she deserved. She was already doing so much for them both, filling out his shoes in mothering—and even fathering—their offspring.
He'd actually think twice about contacting Reborn. He wasn't that stupid.
Basil was being flirted to by some of the female employees. Iemitsu wouldn't want to deprive the kid of that, even if he were terribly bored.
So, he resorted to doing more paperwork in the privacy of his room.
Complaining about paperwork on your work hours and completing them on your free time?
Irony at its finest, but he wasn't about to admit that to anyone. Shh, don't tell.
Irritated by the boredom and the total silence in his study, Iemitsu blew out a heavy sigh, pausing to scrutinize his minuscule handwriting against the stark white of the paper. He wanted to talk to someone, damn it. The quiet was killing him. Making him paranoid.
And then, as if hearing his wishes, the phone rang.
Iemitsu jumped, startled by the ringing. The shrill sound echoed along the empty halls, the hiss of the wind accompanying it—like a ballad for a horror movie. The blond shook his head and absentmindedly reached for the pistol inside his drawer, dark eyes suspiciously scanning his room. The phone rang a second time, and finally he picked it up, eying the caller's name.
"Nana?" He found himself saying, surprised. It was night in Italy. "Why are you calling this late? I was just finishing some pape-" Belatedly, he realized he was supposed to be a boring desk-worker with an equally boring day job. Iemitsu immediately backtracked and bit his tongue to keep his words in check.
"Uh, sorry." How eloquent. His mother would be so proud of him. "What was it, dear?" He ended up saying instead.
From the other end of the line, he heard her inhale deeply. His brow crinkled with worry; was something wrong (again)? She hadn't called outside their regular, scheduled telephone conversations since that nasty hospital scare with Tsuna—she had been very embarrassed and irritated that time, too.
"If you don't return this year and remain in my house for at least two months, Iemitsu, I swear to God, I will f-cking castrate you and rip out your balls-"
Wait.
What.
WHAT.
WHAT?!
He pulled the phone away from his ear and watched it incredulously, not believing that it was his sweet wife who was presently barking at him like a rabid dog. The phone's speaker hummed with noise—more threats to his manhood, no doubt—and he swallowed, for there was a pause. Hesitantly, he pressed the phone to his ear again.
"-and I will do it, you bastard, if you don't come back and make me happy, you selfish douche bag."
He yelped, suddenly realizing the weight of her words. "Wait, wait, Nana-!"
She cut him off swiftly, mercilessly, might he add, with more promises of death and suffering, her words getting darker and angrier by the second. He pursed his lips, waiting for her to finish.
When she did finally seem to be done, she hung up on him too quickly for him to get a word in.
Iemitsu sat on his chair, stumped, staring at the phone in his hands. Finally, he put it down and waited, mind working furiously.
It rang again two seconds later, and he answered it quickly, "Nana!?"
"No, Dad." Tsuna's rich tenor replied, grunting, as he seemed to sound like he was lifting something heavy, "This is Tsuna. Sorry about Mom just now, a Dying Will bullet—is that what it's called?—was involved."
Upon hearing the answer to his misery, Iemitsu relaxed. Oh. Well. That was good.
Wait.
"You let her near a gun?!" He shouted into the receiver, hysterical. His free hand clutched the edge of his desk, digits digging into the wooden surface. "You let your clumsy, soft-hearted, sweet mother near a gun?!"
Even the thought of it sounded unreal. Nana, and a Dying Will bullet?
Hell, he didn't give a single damn if it were Dying Will or no! Nana and a bullet?!
Che cazzo?!
"...It was Reborn's fault." Tsuna answered guiltily, his voice lowering. "I'm sorry, Dad."
"Jesus Christ, Tsuna!" Iemitsu croaked, voice cracking. He rested his forehead against the face of his desk and inhaled deeply, attempting to calm himself. "What if it had been a real bullet? What were you doing? What were you thinking?" He demanded, glaring at the brown paint of the table.
His son's tone was subdued, but the blond took no notice, "Well, there was, uh, Russian Roulette-"
"Russian Roulette!?" Iemitsu thundered, his heart almost stopping in his chest. Russian Roulette was a game out of mafia movies and death. "You let your mother play Russian Roulette? With a real gun?!"
"I'm sorry, Dad." Tsuna repeated again, in a firmer tone of voice. Iemitsu was struck by the fact that his son sounded ultimately like Nana, when she strove to calm Iemitsu down and set his mind straight.
He took another deep breath, counting to ten. His wife's gentle voice sounded in his mind. Calm down, Iemitsu.
"Okay. Just, just be more careful." He grumbled into the receiver, straightening and leaning back into the soft backrest of his seat. He knew that the speed of which he allowed Tsuna reprieve was a grade A sign for bad parenting (he was sure guns and mothers and mafia would alarm most parents to death), but he didn't know what else to tell his son other than surprised exclamations and adulterated swearing.
The deed had already been done, after all. For all shouting could do, Iemitsu knew he couldn't undo the event.
What was depressing was that his wife's last regret was not telling him to come home and spend time with her. Shit, he thought grimly.
His world tipped back until he was eying the ceiling. A ten-second conversation hadn't exhausted him like this in a while. "There shouldn't be a next time." He warned lowly, grimacing at the mere thought of a next time.
Tsuna chuckled dryly, exhaling. "I don't plan on it, Dad. You be careful there, too. I, uh," The brunette swallowed uncomfortably, and then there was awkward silence.
Iemitsu softly groaned into his hand—he didn't want the conversation to tread to the topic of "there". Sometimes he forgot his son already knew of his occupation.
The real one.
Tsuna had always been that child he wanted to shield from the evils of the world. It didn't sit right with him—the thought of his offspring knowing just what dark path Iemitsu was walking. Iemitsu, when it came to Tsuna, dealt with a mix of worship and discomfort. He had always been Tsuna's hero. The fact that his son was now privy to how much wrongs Iemitsu had done—how many people he had killed, how many families he had torn apart, how many others he had slept with—just to keep his wife and son safe was, well, wrong.
"This is our child, Iemitsu." Nana had once told him, cradling their tiny son in her arms one night. He remembered an age when he had been terrified of fatherhood, not only because of his occupation, but also because of his own insecurities. A child had been too much.
What if he dropped Tsuna?
What if he accidentally fed Tsuna the mixture meant for rats?
What if, during cuddling, he crushed Tsuna?
"I will kill you if you would, Iemitsu." His wife had told him calmly, breathing her words to the shell of his ear, wrapping her arms around his neck with the most beautiful smile in the world. He had shivered, not only from arousal, but also fear.
Nana had been his light in those dark times, when he was torn between his profession and his family. Until this very day, she was still his light.
Tsuna was only four months old that time. Nana was often tired and quiet, but always smiling. His sweet flower. Iemitsu was very very in love with her.
She looked up from the infant and gave him a stern look, her brown hair held up in a loosening bun. "He is half of you, and half of me. A part of me is in this child. A part of you as well." She took a deep breath and suddenly became more intimidating than assassins and mafioso and everything else in the world. Iemitsu had gaped at her, surprised at the sudden seriousness of the topic. "In this world, he is the only thing that is truly truly ours. We will protect him, and raise him with our best."
She had been very determined. He was half-expecting a Sky Flame to sprout from her forehead, if only to emphasize their new mission.
"Tsuna..." He began quietly, unsure of where to begin.
"No, Dad." Tsuna replied equally as quiet, "It's okay. I understand." The weight on Iemitsu's chest lightened. "Thank you. For everything you do."
He tried to answer back, but the words were stuck in his throat.
"I love you, Dad."
He blew out a heavy sigh, sinking into his chair. "Love you too, kid." He answered gruffly. He imagined Tsuna smiling before they hung up on each other.
For several long moments, total silence swept the room. Iemitsu glanced at the piles of paperwork forming a mini-metropolis on his desk and rolled his eyes heavenward. "Drat it all." He stumbled out of the chair and into his bed, arms encircling around a pillow, imagining it was Nana.
Soon enough, his eyes willingly shut and he fell asleep.
He was awoken by shrill ringing.
Cursing, he rolled out of bed, taking the blanket and some pillows down with him as he embraced the floor rather violently, butt first. Cringing at the pain, he rose to his feet and limped to the telephone, picking it up with a wince. "Hello?" He answered, voice still thick with sleep. He glanced up at the clock and made a face—it was too early for work.
"Ie...Iemitsu?"
He sobered quickly, "Nana." He greeted a bit stiffly, still feeling the sting of her threats from a few hours ago.
"Am I...disrupting anything?" She asked hesitantly, sounding incredibly meek. Iemitsu sighed and closed his eyes, leaning against the edge of his desk. "No, you're not, dear." He said, rolling his shoulders forward. "What is it?"
"I-I had a bad dream." She paused, and then hurriedly added, "Oh my, I sound so childish. Forget I said anything, husband o' mine. Well, uh, I'm off to watch some teledrama, so-"
"Nana." He interrupted smoothly, and her words died down. "Talk to me."
She hesitated, and finally relented. "I had dreamed of, forgive me for even thinking it, disemboweling you." She admitted quietly. Iemitsu wanted to slap himself. Dream. Right. Thank goodness she didn't remember. Tsuna had some common sense, at least.
"Why on earth would you want to disembowel me?" He tried to joke, nervously laughing.
Her silence was telling. "Erm," she began uncomfortably after, primly clearing her throat, "I could, uh, you know, name a couple of reasons."
"Please don't." Iemitsu begged.
"Right."
"Right."
There was another uncomfortable, unsure pause from her side of the line. "Ooookay then. Let's pretend this conversation never happened." She suggested slowly.
"Agreed," Iemitsu sighed, grinning to himself, "Spare me the embarrassment of my own stunted logic."
"Uh-huh," at least Nana's tone had taken a bit of amusement, and the blond gave himself a small mental pat to the back. One less incident of making his flower sad, success! "I clearly want to preserve my husband's ego."
His heart had skipped a beat when she acknowledged his role in her life. It always had. It pleased him to no end whenever she called him her husband. It just made him so proud. "Thank you, for being such a kind and understanding wife." He meant it as a play-along to her playful mood and as seriously as possible, because by God above, his wife was such a blessing.
"I love you, Iemitsu," ah, there it was. The good ol' three-word phrase. Iemitsu melted into his own gooey puddle, butterflies going absolutely insane in his stomach, along with the thrill of temporary euphoria, because damn. Damn. He was one lucky man.
"Love you too." He managed to squeak out. For his efforts, Nana laughed in delight and hung up.
Embarrassing as it was to admit it, he stared dreamily into the velvet curtains and valiantly fought off the urge to gush. Ugh.
Tanaka—now Sawada (and Iemitsu's inner egoistical demon puffed up and grinned triumphantly)—Nana was, perhaps inadequately described, a lucky catch. Forgive him for sounding incredibly sappy and lovesick, but she was a gift from the heavens.
Nana was quiet, calm, and patient, brandishing a quick wit and an air of complete contentedness. When they first met, she had been such a polite thing! Sometimes he had to marvel at the fire she actually kept hidden. He had expected rejection when he first tried (and oh, how he did try), but when he had begun frequenting her father's restaurant, she had been nothing but indulgent. She had entertained him and his "silly" objectives, despite her obvious exasperation for his "less-than-innocent" (her father's exact words) motives towards herself, and by the end of it, still reeling from the amused smile and the soft pat to the cheek, Iemitsu found himself, perhaps disappointingly, not a girl friend (yet), but loads better, a dear friend.
And he had fallen. Hard. Struck rock bottom, and ack, his romanticism was showing, everything else after had been soaring high, like a rocket launched from dirt.
It sickened him to lie to her. But she was his beautiful Nana. Thousands would die (and thousands already had) before he would let anything from his side of the world touch a strand on her perfect head.