The engine of the low slung sports car roared as it sped out of the underground parking garage and down cramped urban streets toward the outskirts of the city, the passing streetlights overhead illuminating its passengers in neon flickers. Batou's hands were tense with warring emotions as he clenched the steering wheel, expertly guiding the high-performance machine between other cars and around tight corners, cybernetic eyes stubbornly focused on the road and not the woman beside him. Neither of them had spoken since they'd left the Section 9 headquarters and a deafening, pregnant silence had descended to fill the space between them.
'Idiot. Why'd you have to go and say you missed her? So fucking stupid.' Angrily, he jabbed at the car stereo controls, desperate for something to break the silence. A mournful piano and trumpet duet crooned out from the surround speakers. "I'm a Fool to Want You", the dash informed him, unnecessarily. Normally the Lee Morgan classic was one of his favorites, especially for nighttime drives, but right now he felt like it was mocking him. 'That's right, that's me. A damn fool.' Scoffing aloud, he turned the stereo off again, deciding that silence was better than being taunted by a trumpeter who'd been dead for 60 years. He reached for the slightly crumpled pack of cigarettes in his inside breast pocket and tapped it on the steering wheel to release one. Shoving it into his mouth, he discarded the rest of the pack on the dashboard and cracked the window before retrieving his lighter from another pocket. Smoke drifted up around his face as he puffed furiously, a self-effacing stream of obscenities running through his head.
"I thought you liked that song?" Her clear, quiet voice cut through his self-flagellation like a high velocity round.
Was that concern he detected? No, it couldn't be. She didn't show concern, not at something as stupid as his childish pouting over some injury she didn't even know she'd caused. He took another drag before looking over at the Major, and found her staring at him, a searching look on her face. Unable to meet her eyes, he jerked his head forward to refocus on the road, swerving to miss an imaginary pothole. "Not in the mood for it," he responded, brusquely.
"Oh," was all she said. Out of the corner of his vision he watched her turn back toward the window, her cheek resting on one palm, a delicate silver wristwatch peeking out from the sleeve of her overcoat, glittering in the passing lights. He thought he caught a glimpse of pain tugging at the edges of her expression reflected in the darkened glass, but that couldn't be either. She didn't show her pain, not even to him, not even when he practically begged her to.
Sighing, he slouched back into his seat, feeling like he'd been defeated in a game she didn't know they were playing. 'Good job, moron...'
The heavy coils of guilt were still churning as Motoko resumed her silent surveillance of the city passing outside the car window. It was late, and the streets were nearly abandoned except for a few scattered figures; lonely salarymen on their way back to darkened homes and neglected families, sorry looking beggars slumped against cold walls in gloomy alleyways, couples strolling arm in arm unaware of anything but their private bliss. She closed her eyes, sinking back into her own thoughts.
The obvious hurt in Batou's demeanor hadn't surprised her; what had was how it was making her feel. Sneaking a sidelong glance at his tight-lipped scowl, she imagined how he must have felt in the wake of her departure from Section 9, thought about how she'd watched from afar as he withdrew in upon himself to stave off creeping despair and escape the pitying looks of his teammates, how she'd evaded his clumsy attempts to find her. How she'd been tempted to let him. The knot in her stomach tightened as she thought about how she had almost let him in, before everything went to hell on Dejima; let him get so close, giving him a taste of something she knew she was only going to take away again the moment she felt his closeness become too stifling. How many times had she done that? How many times had her words stung him, had her actions wounded him? How many times had she broken his heart?
Anyone else would have - and had - given up long ago, cursing her name as they ran somewhere far away from her cold indifference. But not Batou. He was always there, ready to charge in to put himself between her and danger, to rescue her regardless of whether she needed or wanted him to, to take whatever load she needed carried from her. Always willing to bear the physical and emotional burden, never asking for anything in return. Hell, here he was driving her home after she'd so coldly brushed off a sincere confession of vulnerability, rejecting his offer of affection yet again.
She realized, uncomfortably, that she had always known what his feelings for her were, but that until now, she had never actually put all of the pieces together to uncover the startling depth of his devotion. 'Maybe too late', she thought, she finally understood that he truly loved her, with a fierceness and an unconditionality that she wasn't sure she had the capacity to reciprocate. 'But you do.' A whisper from her ghost, forcing her to face the thing she'd pushed aside again and again in the name of duty, and independence, and a good deal of selfishness.
As if sensing her inner turmoil, Batou's voice cut through her reverie. "Motoko?", he whispered, worry softening his earlier brusqueness and sending the knot springing up into her throat as something else. She felt the harsh sting of facsimile tears pooling at the corners of her eyes. 'Why did I let Kurutan talk me into getting those tear-duct implants?' A single, fat droplet broke free of her attempts to stifle it, trailing down her cheek like lava.
Before she could react, a calloused thumb was brushing the tear away. "Hey," he asked, shakily, clearly having been thrust well beyond the edges of his comfort zone, eyes fixed on hers, "what gives?"
She dropped her head, unable to meet his piercing gaze a moment longer, feeling suddenly very small and unworthy. "Nothing... I just..."
"What?" He was giving her permission; she just had to muster the courage.
"Realized something..." Looking up at his face now, any trace of his former anger disintegrated into single minded concern, a thought came over her, a whisper from her ghost, begging to be spoken aloud. 'It was you all along.' Unable or unwilling to concede to the entreaties of her ghost, she decided on a different tactic. "I don't want to go back to my apartment."
"Uh, ok..." his response was hesitant. "You wanna go to a bar? Ishikawa found a couple new places you might like."
"Maybe some other time..." She gave him a look, hoping he would understand without making her spell it out. To her relief, he did, and turned the car at the next cross-street.
The narrow stairwell leading down to his basement apartment was dark as Batou covertly punched his security code into the keypad. 0-9-0-1. Opening the door, he whispered a silent thanks that he had decided to hire on that cleaning lady a few months back, despite Aramaki's scolding that it would put his cover at risk. He had never actually met the woman, except as a photo in the background file sent over by the agency, but he made a mental note to leave her an extra big tip the next time she came by. His heartbeat was pounding in his artificial eardrums as he stepped aside to let his Major enter first, his hands shaking imperceptibly - he hoped - as he followed and re-engaged the elaborate system of locks behind them.
The apartment was small and sparsely furnished, lit only by a fluorescent bulb above the doorway as they entered, definitely the residence of a workaholic bachelor. The living room and kitchen were one room, separated by a burnished steel island, onto which Batou deposited his car key, wallet, and sidearm. A darkened hallway led off to the right of the kitchen, toward the bedroom and bathroom. The cabinets and appliances were the same dull gunmetal color as the island in the sparse light, the tile below a dingy off-white. He flipped on the overhead light before pulling off his jacket, which he threw over the arm of a faded leather recliner, the only thing in the place that looked lived in. Next to it, an empty ashtray atop a nondescript side table, and next to that, an ancient-looking stereo cabinet. A heavy metal workbench topped with neatly arranged toolboxes and ammunition cases opposite that. No TV. No art on the walls. No windows. Not a home, just a place to exist between missions. Motoko paused in the center of the living room, surveying the place briefly before removing her own coat and laying it neatly over his.
"You hired a cleaning service, didn't you? That's an awfully big risk, even for you." There was a hint of playfulness to her question that somehow set him at ease.
"Ape face said the same thing," he replied with a shrug and a sheepish grin. Feeling a bit more comfortable now, in his own space, he decided to take a chance. "You want something to drink?"
"No thanks." She had moved to the kitchen space and was inspecting the small handful of photos taped to his refrigerator door, expressionless.
'Shit.' Batou realized, cringing, that the fake family portrait they had taken with Borma's nephew was among those photos and that she would definitely notice. He'd forgotten that he had hung it there after she had disappeared. Mercifully, she said nothing. Needing desperately to distract himself, he retrieved a bottle of whiskey and an appropriate glass from the cabinet above his sink, and poured himself a generous finger. 'Shit.' His hands were shaking again and he had sent some of the amber liquid sloshing over the rim of the glass onto the counter. He grabbed a paper towel from the roll next to the sink, a bit too roughly; the roll toppled and fell into the metal basin. 'Shit.'
Motoko pretended not to notice Batou's nervous fumbling, the smallest kindness she could offer him, she thought. Instead, she kept her eyes on his surprisingly sentimental collection of photos. Almost every member of Section 9 was represented, except the notoriously and prudently camera shy Aramaki. There was one of Pazu and Saito in slightly rumpled suits, arms draped around each other's shoulders, grinning wolfishly with a pair of beautiful women looking exceptionally bored in the background. In another, a much younger looking Ishikawa and pre-eye-implant Borma flexing in front of a tank in desert fatigues. Next to it, a group shot of the Tachikoma and their operators, taken not long after the tanks had been delivered to Section 9. Below that, a holiday card bearing a scene of cheesy domestic bliss: Togusa in a Santa hat, with his wife and children, in front of a European-style Christmas tree. And of course, in the very center of these frozen memories, that memento of the imaginary life that both she and Batou knew they could never have.
Studying the goofy grin on his photo face, she remembered how angry he had been after that mission. At the time she had told herself it was just a combination of the decommissioning of the Tachikoma and disappointment over his fallen idol, but on reflection she realized, with another pang of remorse, how much more there had been to that story. Tearing herself away, she turned her attention to the real Batou, who was now leaning on one elbow against the opposite corner of the island, eyes fixed on the whiskey glass he was slowly twirling in the other hand.
She took the opportunity to really look at him. His face was certainly not conventionally attractive, but there was something ruggedly handsome in its flat planes and harsh angles. Her gaze drifted downward to the impressive bulk of his chest and arms, straining ever so slightly against his black turtleneck, then to massive hands that could shatter steel with a well-placed right hook. His body had been designed for power and stamina; sculpted, perhaps, in imitation of some ancient Roman gladiator or Viking warlord, but chosen more out of practicality than vanity. He must have sensed that she was staring, because he glanced up from his whiskey and flashed her a cheeky grin, flexing one massive arm in an exaggerated impression of some American bodybuilder. Refusing to humor his ridiculous pose, she rolled her eyes as she crossed the kitchen to lean next him, giving him a disapproving smirk in exchange for his obviously fake pout.
"This is nice," he said, after a long pause. "Feels like old times."
'Old times,' she echoed, silently. Of course. They had ended up back at this apartment on a number of occasions, usually after a particularly challenging mission, after they both decided to drink too much with their alcohol processors turned off and give their teammates the slip. Most times they just talked, but other times, they let themselves do things they shouldn't. They never spoke about those nights, even to each other, in fear that the others would find them out, or worse, that they would find out something about themselves. But this wasn't those times. They were both stone sober and the silence between them was charged with something other than lust and liquid courage, and she knew he was lying; to her, but mostly to himself.
How had she let it get this awkward? What the hell was she doing, standing in his kitchen wearing little more than what might pass for modest underwear on anyone else, a maelstrom of emotion and competing impulses roaring in her head? She was used to being in control of every situation, but right now she felt that control slipping from her grasp; the harder she tried to hold onto it, the faster it slipped. Something had to give, and Motoko knew that she would have to be the one to give it a push. She knew what she wanted to do - had to do. Standing up with a resolute sigh, she turned to stand in front of him, a slightly confused look furrowing his brows as she took the whiskey glass out of his hand and slammed it back in one deft twist of her wrist.
"I was going to drink that, you know," he protested, though they both knew he wasn't about to actually do anything about it.
"Shut up, Batou." Before he could respond, she leaned in, one hand grasping the scruff of his neck, and firmly pressed her lips to his.
Batou froze as she kissed him, caught off guard and uncertain if he could or should trust what was happening. She must have sensed his hesitation, because she broke away abruptly, her steely expression suddenly full of apologies, and he immediately realized his mistake.
"I'm so-" He didn't let her finish, catching her slender wrist before she could pull too far away and drew her close again, his lips finding hers this time. They were soft, and cool, and yielding. He felt her tense and then relax against him, sinking into his embrace as he wrapped his other arm around her waist. Releasing her wrist and bringing his hand up to cup the delicate line of her jaw, he kissed her harder, their lips conveying a small part of what their voices had never been able to. Her now-free hand snaked its way up and around his neck again, fingers running gently through his hair. His heart threatened to burst from his chest and fly off somewhere into the night. He didn't care what had prompted this or what disaster might come out of it. She felt real, and he felt whole.
As suddenly as the moment had begun, though, it was shattered by the sound of someone or something shuffling behind him. Batou reacted with precisely honed instinct, turning to place his body between Motoko and the intruder, the hand that been cradling her face reaching for the pistol lying on the counter behind him. Just as quickly as he had raised the weapon, though, he lowered it again with an exasperated sigh as he realized what had interrupted them.
The big brown eyes of a slightly paunchy looking basset hound were staring up at them out of the shadows of the hallway. Seemingly oblivious to how close it had come to certain death, the dog sat back on its haunches and scratched at one floppy ear with an oversized paw before looking back up at them with a tilt of its head and a soft woof.
"You got a dog ?" Motoko asked, incredulously, looking at him as if he'd grown a second head.
Pressing the barrel of the gun to the bridge of his nose and briefly toying with the idea of putting himself out of his misery, he ignored the question to address the dog in the stern but paternal tone of a father scolding an unruly child. "Gabu! Bad dog! We've talked about this, don't sneak up on Batou like that." Gabu responded with a dog's smile, tongue rolling out of its mouth to one side, nonplussed. "Go on, go lay down." He gestured toward the living room with the pistol. "Go..." The basset gave him a whine, but obliged, padding across the room to clamber gracelessly onto the recliner. She turned two or three times before settling in with a huff, baleful eyes still locked on her master.
"Not on the- oh whatever. Stay."
"Gabu?" Motoko asked again, grinning like a cat that had just caught a mouse, as she gingerly took the gun out of his hand and returned it to the counter.
"Oh shut up." He wasn't about to let this turn into a roast, and silenced the possibility of further jabs by pulling her back into another kiss, any fear he might have had of retribution cast aside as she melted into his arms. When she broke away, she just smiled up at him, and laid her head on his chest.
Motoko tried and failed to remember the last time she had felt like this. Content. Safe. Human. The guilt and the doubt had fallen away, and whatever thread had been tugging her away, tempting her out into the vast expanses of the Net, seemed to have snapped, or at least slackened for the time being. Batou's chest was warm against her cheek, and she could feel the steady thrum of his mechanical heart, the heat of his breath against her scalp, the surprising tenderness of his big, rough-skinned hand as he stroked her hair. He smelled like whiskey and gun oil, tobacco smoke and sandalwood. She thought she might have liked to stay like this forever.
The soft tinkling of piano keys, and then the mournful crooning of a trumpet, broke through the silence and she glanced up at Batou, as if to demand an explanation. He didn't offer one, but instead just shrugged as he took one of her hands in his and led her into the living room. Neither of them actually knew how to dance, but it didn't seem to matter; they moved in that way nervous teenagers do, swaying almost in time to the music, shifting awkwardly from one foot to the other. She didn't recognize the tune; something from the early twentieth century. Coltrane, maybe? Normally she hated his hopelessly outdated taste in music, but tonight it felt... right. The ceiling light above them dimmed, plunging the room into a golden wash from the light of a pair of sconces on the walls. When had he gotten so smooth?
—Batou— She whispered through their private comm line, the one he had always kept open.
—Don't you say a word about the Duke—
—I wouldn't dare—
He bent down to kiss her again, once on the lips, then again on the forehead, and she closed her eyes as they continued their slow, clumsy dance. The absurdity and perfection of the moment had caused that viper of guilt to read its ugly head again.
—Batou—
—Hmm?—
—You know...— She faltered. She had long since lost track of the number of armored suits, rogue tanks, snipers, terrorists, and hackers she had faced down without a hint of fear, without a moment's hesitation. So why the hell was her heart beating so fast? Steeling herself, she pressed on. —You know I can't ever give you that life—
The gentle swaying stopped. She was afraid to open her eyes, to see what terrible expression might be contorting his features. But she forced herself to face it, and was surprised to see him smiling serenely down at her.
"Motoko... the only life I need is one with you in it, whatever that has to mean." The absolute conviction, the unabashed sincerity of his declaration nearly brought her to tears again. In the logic centers of her cyberbrain, she wondered what she had done to deserve this, but her ghost whispered reassurances that it didn't matter, and Motoko reciprocated his bravery with a kiss that she hoped would say 'and I, you.'
She finally let herself relax into this new moment, to be carried away by the soft light and the music and the feeling of strong hands holding her close. Neither of them spoke as the heartbreaking jazz standard melted into another, then another, and she soon lost track of the time as it seemed to stretch and bend around them. Her eyelids were getting heavy, she realized with dismay, the steady rocking of their bodies and the lingering fatigue of her earlier exertions conspiring to lull her into a trance. She fought against the tug of sleep with all her might, desperate to stretch the night as far as she could, but she could feel her senses dulling into a warm, hazy fog. The last thing she remembered clearly was the sensation of powerful arms sweeping her up and carrying her away from that golden paradise in spite of her stubborn protests.
Although the Major's military-grade body was deceptively heavy, it was nothing for Batou to hoist her into his arms and cradle her gently as he carried her down the darkened corridor to his bedroom. She murmured sleepy dissents, her long fingers clutching at the smooth fabric of his shirt, but he ignored them, carefully lowering her onto the pillowy surface of his oversized bed and removing her shoes. As he pulled the blanket over her willowy frame, tucking the edge under her chin and brushing a few stray hairs from her face, her grumbling subsided into tired resignation. Satisfied that she was comfortable, he sat on the edge of the bed next to her, careful not to jostle her.
Lit only by the moonlight filtering in through the intricate but blast-proof metal screen covering the only window in the apartment, her expression was more serene than he had ever seen it. The astonishing beauty of the sight stole the breath from his lungs, and he thought that if he'd still had eyes capable of such a thing, he might have wept. She looked like a porcelain doll, or an angel, though she would have throttled him if she knew he had compared her to either. Beneath this tranquil shell, she was a typhoon, threatening to destroy everything and everyone in its path; but tonight he had finally made it to the eye of her storm and though he knew the winds and waves of her mercurial nature would eventually sweep him back out into the choppy seas, he was content to savor it while he could.
Slowly, gingerly, he leaned over and planted a final goodnight kiss on her forehead, lingering just long enough to fill his olfactory receptors with her natural perfume - thunderstorms and windflowers - before withdrawing, planning to retreat back to the safety of his recliner. Lady Luck had showered enough graces on him tonight and he wasn't about to press her for any more favors. As he stood, though, a hand emerged from the covers to grasp his wrist, and he thought he felt his heart skip a beat.
"Where're y'goin'?" Motoko murmured groggily, her voice muffled slightly under the heavy comforter. Vivid cerise eyes peered up at him from beneath heavy lids, begging - no, demanding - for him to stay. He breathed a silent prayer, and gently extricated his wrist from her surprisingly firm grip. Her gaze was still on him, staring pointedly through the darkness, and without daring to question it lest she change her mind, he obliged its silent request by shedding his boots and turtleneck. He paused momentarily before removing his belt and holster too, and then hesitantly climbed into the bed beside her. It was only once he had settled in, wrapping his arms around her and cradling her head into the crook of his neck that she finally relaxed and closed her eyes again.
Sleep eluded him, though, despite his own exhaustion, and he lay awake listening to the barely audible rhythm of her breath for what felt like hours. He replayed the evening's events over and over in his mind, examining each action and reaction from every conceivable angle, like a detective sifting through evidence, not entirely convinced that they weren't just false memories implanted by some cruel adversary. 'Is she really back? Will she really stay?' A stolen glance down at her sleeping face, at her pale hand clasping his in the darkness, cast his doubts to the wind, and he pressed his lips to the skin just behind her ear before whispering very, very softly, "I love you."
With the weight of this confession finally lifted from his chest, he allowed the warmth and the darkness to envelope him too, drifting into the deep, impenetrable slumber of a man contented.
Notes:
I can't remember which fic it was that mentioned Lee Morgan's "I'm a Fool to Want You" (gimme a shout out if that was you so i can give you proper credit), but it's such a fitting theme for these two that I couldn't help but swipe the idea.