Author's Note: Heartfelt gratitude must go to omasuoniwabanshi for pointing out the slip-up with the poached eggs in the most tactful way possible.
Sakura Trees, gee, thanks for the vote of confidence! More romance coming up on a silver platter, don't worry.
Buffalocatz, hey, thanks for another great review. "Ain't love grand?"— true, but appreciation is grander!! I'm halfway on my way to heaven that you liked the "little things" of the chapter. More love is in the air, now that St. Valentine's ghost back again in the year— Saito and Tokio are definitely having an interesting time. And I definitely am making a conscious effort to add in what you wanted to see, everywhere I get an opening. (I'm not as lazy as you may think.)
nannon, ooh, thanks. Hope you keep reading.
omasuoniwabanshi, thanks for the extra mile you went to make sure I got the review. Reading it made my day— even with the poached eggs. ::grins goofily::
reader, if you liked this fic so far, I hope you enjoy the rest of the ride. A lot is on its way, and I truly hope it entertains you.
I'm not very sure if a cigarette lighter was invented at the time of speaking, but let's just ignore that for the sake of effect, please? I promise it'll go home by bedtime.
Chapter Eleven
Souji Okita closed his eyes as he sat on the woven tatami mat in front of the fireplace. The flames flickered, reflected in his face, in his hair, on his closed eyelids.
He had not lied when he had told Saito he needed to be accepted for a job. The Meiji was an era of peace, but the unemployed still need their bread to eat. The past is not enough to feed on.
Over the last half-hour, he'd finished writing three different applications, and turning down one that involved manual labour, on grounds of health and physical height. He would have liked to teach, perhaps Literature, or History, but without experience, there was no point in being optimistic.
Perhaps hopeful would do, and he smiled.
Saito closed his eyes, wondering if the nightmare would break and he could slip into reality once more.
Tokio sat opposite him, away from the fire, in her favourite lumpy sofa, once more bundled in the afghan. She was looking at him with widened eyes.
"So," she said tentatively, "what do you think?"
"I think," he said slowly, not opening his eyes, "that I'm dreaming. This very horrible dream."
"It's only kendo lessons," she protested. "And I'll only be doing it in my own time, Mr. Hajime."
A hand reached up to rub his eyes. "Exactly. I've no right to stop you, girl, even if I want to. But kendo?"
"I thought it was a good idea," she said defensively. "I don't want to be caught like that again." Her eyes clouded. "... I could've lost my hands."
Saito debated saying anything; it wasn't his business, but he'd made her his concern. "If someone wants to kill you, Tokio, not all the kendo lessons in the world, nothing, can stop him."
He regretted it. Opposite him, Tokio stiffened. She raised her head, and her chin lifted. "Are you saying, Mr. Saito, that I only need you save me, because nothing else can?"
"Watch your words, Tokio."
"I will not, Mr. Saito, if it'll make you think you can insult me and get away with it. What are you trying to say? That I can't take kendo lessons from Mr. Koshi, because it will mean you don't get to be the only one who has the power to protect me and my life?"
Saito's eyes opened. They were hard, crystal hard, and burning golden like the sun.
"I told you to watch your words. And yes, I am the only one who can protect your life— don't forget, I'm the only one who has to act as your guardian in this city. I'm the one who pays you, I ensure you get a safe roof to sleep under and a bed to sleep in— and I'm the one who saved you that night."
The silence exploded in their ears.
Tokio fell back into the arms of the chair. Saito closed his eyes again.
She said, the words grinding into powdered chalk in her mouth, "I'm sorry, Mr. Hajime. I apologise. For being rude." She hated to say it; it hurt her more than her pride, because whatever she felt for him, she couldn't deny what he'd said.
He paid her.
Without him, she'd have no roof, no food, and no money to buy a roof, or food.
She would never think twice before asking his help; and she would never be sincere when she apologised to him for having done nothing that was wrong.
"Forget it. You were out of line, but so was I. I shouldn't have become angry; forgive that."
Yes, she thought. You won't even apologise for insulting me. But inside, she let herself smile. She knew what even that small apology had cost him.
Things picked up into normalcy once more from there.
With the escape of Takamura, the very reason why the bureaucrats had stolen Saito's badge and authority, Inspector Fujita came alive once more. The Commissioner no longer became the only who called him by that designation, and officially being given back his position by the efforts of the same gentleman, Fujita was reassigned the case.
The bureaucrats had been furious because they hadn't found what they wanted. They wanted Makoto Shishio, and a man as dangerous as Takamura was not compensation enough. Perhaps that was why they had allowed Fujita as much liberty as to be able walk in and out of the police station, because except what they could say unofficially about Shishio, they really had no real reason to strip Inspector Fujita of his power.
But contrary now to the commissioner's understanding, Saito did not want, in the least, to be put after Takamura. He despised the thought of the drug lord, the organisation, the lackeys, and more importantly, and that short, baritone-voiced ugly man who'd drawn a gun at him, but now lay dead.
He worked with the spies and informants, a network that spread across Japan, and without Chou Sawagejo, it was difficult, because that man was the underworld. There were unhelpful rumours, of course, that Chou was currently moving through the country, visiting city and village— collecting valuable swords. A venture that was either eccentric, mad, or demonically calculated.
Tokio fared better, being engaged in something she enjoyed and wanted, and Mr. Koshi was a good teacher, and wonderfully patient. He held classes at school thrice a week, and on the other three days, he was free to teach her.
When there is balance, there is contentment. When there is contentment, happiness learns to grow.
Evening had beset the sky when Saito raised his head to look out the window, the light dimming as it fell across his desk. When he last remembered, it had been quite light at four-thirty in the afternoon, and he stretched his fingers, dropping the stack of official reports he'd been proof-reading. A cramp was steadily throbbing behind his knuckles.
He glanced at the time, and it was past five-thirty. Perhaps it would not be too late to go home for the night.
There was someone waiting for him. The thought made him smile.
He picked up his jacket, his hat, and retrieved the sword from where it leant against the chair. He swept the reports into their boxes, depositing them near the file cabinet. Putting out the light, he closed the door to the office, descending the stairs.
There were still many people left that evening, mostly officers on duty, littering the lobby and front office, and Saito wove through them, emerging into the crisp, chilly night, the air sliding down his throat in an involuntary inhalation, making him cough.
His hand fished about in his pockets, and he brought out a cigarette and a box of matches. The heat of the pin-fire was enough for him, and he slowly walked back home.
At six o' clock, it started to snow.
Saito looked up in alarm, almost immediately cursing the sky. His hand shot into his pockets, but his handkerchief was not there. It was with Okita. The short little bastard had not thought to return the only other handkerchief he possessed.
A low growl emitted itself from his throat. The shivers were crawling up his spine. And then.
He sneezed explosively.
Tokio glanced at the time, on the big fob-watch kept on the table in Saito's room. In her arms were the bundled clothes that were to go into the laundry, and in her face, a worried frown. It was black outside the window, the panes dusted with falling snow. Hajime was supposed to be home by now. Her heart knotted in her chest.
The food was waiting on the table. Served hot, but it was running cold. She'd even set out warmed sake and a fresh pack of cigarettes because she knew Hajime was fast running out. She felt a little foolish inside, but she didn't need to hope and pray for Hajime to notice. He'd want to know what the occasion was. Could she tell him?
That for once, in between the gratitude, it was not always obligation. That she genuinely liked him as a person and as a man?
A hand crept up to knead his temples, and Saito noted gloomily that his skin felt hot, despite the snow. It fell steadily outside, and he sat on the front porch of the half-empty Akabeko, watching the winter. He sneezed again, and pulled the jacket on tighter. He didn't intend to catch pneumonia from the fever that was surely to develop.
His weakness before cold and changing temperatures had always the bane of his pride.
A ridiculously poor immune system was Okita's department; he did not even have that excuse. He leaned a shoulder heavily against one of the tall beams holding up the extended roof of the porch, and closed his eyes. Even his eyelids felt hot. This was turning into a terrible evening.
She'll be worried sick.
Immediately, he decided he didn't like the thought, his hands brushing the snowflakes off his knee. To think of Tokio now ... Surely, you can't be that selfish, that you're going to stop thinking about the only woman who cares, just because it pains you. If Saito could have scowled at himself, he would.
What if she comes to the office? The last time she'd come to deliver a letter, without even knowing who had been the sender. This time not even Okita's going to be there.
Dammit.
Sae, who had been running the establishment in Kyoto for fifteen capable years, was starting to get worried about the police officer out on the steps of the Akabeko. She did not allow gentlemen to simply lounge around the restaurant, but he had insisted. The way he was leaning against the pillar-beams made her wonder about his health, and the sudden paleness of his face, as reported by an entering customer, allayed none of her concerns.
At length, with a cup of boiling hot tea on a black lacquer tray, she carried to the officer, setting it down beside him. "Excuse me, sir, but you look like you can use a drink."
The man glanced up briefly, and then his the direction of his gaze slanted towards the falling snow again. "I have to disagree until you can tell me why."
Sae said bluntly, "Because you look like you're going to topple over with the greyness of your face."
Inwardly, he started. He did not feel as ill as he looked. But then again, the winter produced an undesirably exaggerated expression in him, and often, in the steaming heat of summer, he often looked like he'd run five miles, even if he had been sitting around behind the desk all day.
He picked up the tea cup, and took a small sip. He felt mildly burned to the bone.
There was only the shawl she had drawn around her shoulders that kept Tokio Takagi safe from the cold. She hardly felt it through her socks, and the sandals barely sounded on the ground as she walked. Quick and brisk. She had seen the time before she left, and Hajime was not at work. She hoped they would meet down the road, and then, they could return home together.
Her hand in his.
She let herself smile.
The snow had stopped falling, as she'd let herself out of the house, but the lingering sense of winter would not go away. Her hair tumbled about her, and she ran her hands through it. She did not care now that there had been no time to comb it, and the streets were mostly empty, with no one to stare.
The ground crunched under her feet, and the soft sound seems so loud in her ears, against the silence. Funny, the city had never been this quiet before, and it was like the world was silent to listen the sound of her heartbeat rise and fall, harder than it had ever done before.
Because Tokio didn't know where to go. Where to find him. Find Hajime.
He had been sipping at the tea, the cup scorching his palms through the gloves, the pain a distant point of focus. Saito watched the snow fall again with riveted attention. He had never seen before — so blind, so blind — how each flake was impossible to scrutinise — each flake was different they said, but that was a lie ... They are all the same...
A voice said at the back of his voice, deliberately taunting him because it knew he was sick, Maybe it's just you who can't see?
"Damn you, I can," he grunted, slurring. "Jus' shut the heller up..."
The tea was too hot, hot as the flames of Emma, ruling hell for eternity. To hot to drink. He never knew it had fallen from his hands a long time ago, staining the snow a damp brown at his feet.
His gloves had come off, too. (I don't remember doing that...) It was his bare hands pressed together that felt so hot, still stinging from when he'd held the cup. (What cup?)
Vaguely, from a mile away, he watched, rather felt, his hands fumble with his pockets, searching ... The steel casing of the lighter was cool to touch, like an electric shock snapping up him.
Cigarette ... where the hell did I put them? ... One hand played with the lighter. Flicking it open. Snapping close. A tinny sound he couldn't hear. Tossing it up. He made a drunken fumble to snatch it, but it fell with a muffled clump into the snow.
He didn't see it fall. The clump hadn't come from the lighter. He could feel the cold sensation of snow, of winter, pressing against his cheek. He couldn't see properly. All he could think was ... Maybe his appearance really wasn't ... so deceptive...
