Author's Note: And Saito faces the music ... though, not just to one thing alone.
Nette JP, gee, thanks. It's a nice feeling to know you're such an enthusiast. You really made be feel awful for not writing fast enough. (And that is one fool-proof method to start my writing gears again.)
omasuoniwabanshi, thanks so much for what you said, once more. Yeah, I'm very sorry it took him so long to finally kiss her— the big jackass.
alexnyukiluvr, I missed you. You're another person who consistently makes me get off the couch and leave the TV remote alone, and stop leaving Saito and Tokio in inopportune moments. I know this chapter doesn't make up for the wait, but I hope you like it.
bringer-of-death-and-sorrow, I'm old-fashioned when it comes to stuff like this, and at my age, I've decided not to go into physical romance. The platonic and intellectual relationships are really what I like to read, so, yeah, it reflects in what I write. Thanks very much, though. I'm really glad you like my fic.
Venus Smurf, thank you. It's beautiful compliment, and I hope I'll not disappoint. Btw, I really like your nom de plume. (Wasn't "The Smurfs" a cartoon?)
Buffalocatz, thanks for dropping off a review. I'm flattered really that you'd really take time off to read my story. (Especially since you sound pretty busy!) I definitely appreciate your vote of confidence, too— thanks for saying it's "a really nice twist on the relationship."
Sakura Trees, thank you! I start breaking out into a guilty sweat when people say stuff like that, because it's definitely sweet of you to actually have faith in Miss Wakes, Sleeps, Randomly Remembers to Update.
Chapter Ten
The overly-bright sunlight fell on Saito's skin, on his exposed forearms where his sleeves had been rolled up.
It was six-thirty in the morning, and wearing a new pair of his uniform's trousers and a white shirt, Saito was out in the front yard, trying to do some cleaning. Heavy cleaning.
Since it was far too early in the morning, the cul-de-sac outside the fence was deserted, save a street cat curled up tightly at the base of the lamppost. Their only neighbour, Koshi, the half-mad, thoroughly eccentric fool, didn't get up until an hour later, for which Saito was extremely thankful.
It was a gruelling and merciless task to dispose of a corpse in the raw, inhuman hours of the morning, when both cold and sun attacked you without pity. He still limped with the wound cutting his leg. Saito hefted the dead boy from the ground, shifting him into a better position so that he could drag the corpse across the yard.
A long, crimson stain smeared the ground, tracing a path from the wooden ramp engirdling the house, to the gate. Saito did not like to touch this piece of human flesh, the very feeling of the icy limbs making his skin crawl. It was a difficult job, finding the gate as he was walking backwards, but one hefty kick opened the door, simultaneously shooting pain up the injured, unused leg.
Saito cursed, and wheeling around, he bodily tossed the boy into the street.
When he went back into the house, Tokio was still asleep. She was curled up lightly, her hair loose and splaying about her face, her fingers clutching the sheets, as she slept under the covers of Saito's futon.
She looked beautiful, but dishevelled.
Crouching gingerly down beside her, Saito reached out a hand to brush back her hair. But he froze close to her face, so close his fingertips could nearly touch her cheek.
He withdrew his hand, and standing up, he went back out.
Tokio woke up to the smell of burnt cooking oil, and immediately she pushed herself up on her elbows, trying to grasp what the smell of fire could mean, until dread and fear ran down her throat, almost choking her again.
Last night...
But she tried to will her breath to feel less cold. Mr. Hajime had been there. But then she realized, she didn't feel any warmer. The covers of the futon had slipped off her shoulders, and she was sitting up in only a flimsy yukata, open to the winter.
This was not ... her room. Then she saw the crumpled, navy, officer's jacket near her, and she scrambled out, and quickly pulled in on. Heat flooded her; Hajime's jacket always had that inherent gift.
The smell of oil...
It must be the kitchen.
Five minutes later, almost half-afraid to find out, she cautiously stuck her head past the doorframe.
Saito was in the kitchen, his back turned with a plain, stained apron tied around him, and he was busy frying something in a pan. The smell of burnt oil was even stronger this close, and Tokio didn't know if she should giggle or grimace.
"Um, Mr. Hajime?"
With speed she'd never seen before, he turned around completely, and immediately, Tokio had to snort back a laugh because he looked ridiculous. But there were his tiger-eyes glaring at her to do just that.
"Breakfast, Mr. Hajime?"
He snorted, and turned back to the pan on the fire. "This is only because you overslept."
"It's only seven o' clock," she reminded him blandly. "And it's Saturday. You never eat before eight on Saturdays."
He was momentarily stumped in his excuse before he immediately recovered. "Well, I've changed my schedule, as is extremely apparent, Tokio."
"What're you making?"
"Poached eggs."
She really grimaced now. It sounded like an awful, typically Western-awful recipe. "Um, what is it, Mr. Hajime?"
But he only waved a wooden spoon at her, turning back to the fire, in a silent, impatient gesture for her to leave the food in peace. He was acting like nothing had ever happened, and some part of Tokio was immeasurably grateful.
She backed out of the kitchen, in favour of sitting on the front porch. As memories and details crept back to her, it slowly ingrained itself that she'd Hajime murder another man. Deep inside, she thought the man had not deserved the brutality at Hajime's hands, but when she looked down at her hands, the fingertips were raw and red and hurt even at touch.
The remorseless hatred coursed through her, even if it was unjustified.
Mr. Hajime was humming in the kitchen. He often did that if he was in a good mood, and he was smoking as well— the well-remembered smell of cigarette smoke found her as she slid the shoji open, and stepped outside.
It was still early, and the winter breeze ruffled her hair, as she leaned back against the wall. And then she saw it.
There were bloodstains in the yard. On the wood she was standing on— under her feet.
She paled.
And then it made her realize there was no corpse.
Mr. Hajime.
He must have cleaned everything up for her.
Her heart pulsed warmly in her chest.
"Fujita!" someone called. "Inspector Fujita."
Saito halted on the stairs of the police station, turning around on his way to his office. His fingers flew to the brim of the felt hat, slowly taking it off. "Commissioner," he intoned with the right degree of respect. "Can I help you?"
The man was standing at the foot of the stairs, one hand on the banister, peering up Saito with a mild expression on his face. "Come down here a second, will you, Fujita? Let's have a word in private."
"Private" referred to the Commissioner's office, seated on one side of the big desk, suspiciously like one who is going to be interrogated. Saito studied the Commissioner softly, trying to look casual. The other man didn't seem inclined to speak, and since Saito thought of him as one of the few tolerable people left in the world, he leaned back in the chair, and lit a cigarette.
"So, what happened? It's nice building up the tension in here—" he exhaled a feather of smoke "— but I'm curious."
The Commissioner laughed lightly. "Well, something happened that might spark your interest."
"I don't have a badge anymore. Who says I'll be interested?"
"Look at it from my angle, then, Fujita: has that scar healed?"
"Which scar?"
"The fresh one on the torso. The drug dealer, Takamura. The one that Chou Sawagejo tipped you off about."
"Yeah. He escaped from armed security, while being transported to some fortified lock-up. I read the papers; so, what about him?" He deftly ignored the question. Not the obvious one. The underlying one, of course.
"He's in town. One of our informants left a note about it on the desk."
"I see. Does this mean he has another grudge against me?"
"Maybe. Not sure, but probably so. That's not what I wanted a word about."
"Oh?"
Saito leaned forward in the chair. He knew what this was leading to.
"A corpse was found near your house, Fujita. Care to tell me why you murdered a man? ... No excuses, Fujita, I'm in earnest.
A snort. "He was hardly a man. And he broke into my house, and attacked my housekeeper. He tried to burn the flesh off her hands, and he attacked me. He was very much armed."
"Hm. I figured that very last bit, Fujita. But you murdered him?"
"Self-defence. On behalf of an unarmed woman."
The Commissioner noted evenly how Inspector Fujita was showing absolutely no remorse, or rather, no emotion. "Dammit, I understand that as well as you, Fujita," he snapped coolly, "but I don't at all see a reason why you murdered a man in your own home, in front of that girl, Tokio."
Saito had gone back to leaning in the chair. He crushed out the cigarette in a nearby ashtray, watching the angry glint behind the Commissioner's eyes. Before he lit a fresh one, he said very simply,
"You just told me, Commissioner: no excuses."
Saito exhaled softly as he walked through the front gate of his house to find Tokio engaged in a few words with the neighbour, Mr. Koshi. The man was still in the clothes he wore to work, and the bokken hung at his side.
"Mr. Hajime!" Tokio waved a greeting at him, beaming cheerily. He returned her greeting lazily without feeling self-conscious in the least. If nothing, open display of feeling, was his only way of apologising to her for what he had found on Christmas night.
"Evening, Saito," greeted Koshi, extending a hand.
"Mr. Koshi and I have been talking, Mr. Hajime,"
But he wasn't listening. Relief was seeping into him too fast to control. She was safe ... She'd been so stubborn, insisting that he should go back to work ... Unfounded thoughts ... She was safe.
It was all that mattered.
She was safe.