Three months later...
It would remain a subject of contentious debate among the field team as to who exactly had figured it out first, Ishikawa or Togusa. The dispute was only a matter of personal pride, of course, as the real wager had been on what would happen, not on who would discover it.
The rookies had been left out, too green to be trusted not to blab to Batou, or worse, the Major, and no one breathed a word to the Chief, who would have shut the whole thing down and put them all on cleaning duty for wasting department time.
Saito had declined to participate, knowing exactly what his punishment would be if either subject of their speculation found out.
Pazu had wagered, rather morbidly, that the ex-Ranger would eventually despair of chasing the unattainable Major and off himself in some unspeakably violent fashion.
Ishikawa, less morbidly, but equally cynically, put his money on Batou pining forever with that monastic devotion that the old man found slightly perverse.
Togusa, ever the optimist, bet that the pair would disappear together to reemerge under new identities that could live happily ever after. He had protested that there was still time for that to happen before handing over his credits, but was shouted down by the others who insisted that was not part of the wager.
But it was quiet, unassuming Borma, who saw more than anyone ever gave him credit for, who accurately predicted both the nature and the circumstances of the relationship, and was rewarded for his astuteness with a fat stack of credits and the looks on his teammates' faces as they handed them over. Pazu had grumbled something about cheating, Ishikawa had said nothing, and Togusa had peppered him with awestruck questions about how he knew. All of them, though, cheered a little inside when they discovered that what they had been collectively rooting for was finally happening.
It would be almost exactly 45 minutes after the changing of money that Batou and Motoko realized that they had been found out. It had only taken a few knowing winks and one very poorly thought out off hand comment about honeymoon destinations to tip them off. The Major had just pinched the bridge of her nose, scowling silently, while Batou launched into a red-faced tirade of bellowing expletives and very specific threats as the rest of the team collapsed into raucous howls of laughter around the smaller of Section 9's two briefing rooms.
"I don't know what could possibly be so funny at a time like this," the stern, irritated voice of Aramaki cut through the din, a withering gaze silencing any lingering sniggers as he crossed the room to his place at the head of the table. "An anti-cyberization faction seized control of the Russian embassy at 0700 this morning. They have taken several hostages, including the Deputy Minister for Foreign Affairs and the Russian Ambassador, and are demanding an immediate halt to all imports of Russian-manufactured prosthetics. We have orders from the Prime Minister to handle the matter. Quietly."
The Major, silently thanking the Chief for the diversion, took command, barking orders that left no room for argument. Suddenly on their best professional behavior, the field operatives stood to attention and echoed their affirmatives, moving to execute their fearsome commander's directives.
Before any of them made it past the threshold, though, Aramaki interjected again, a vulpine smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Oh and Major, Batou, I don't know when you two were planning to tell me, but it's about damn time."
The facade of professionalism dissolved once more into roars of laughter and one very creative stream of expletives.
There would be no wedding bells for them, no exchanges of vows, no official records. Instead, there would only be silent promises, whispered between ghosts through stolen glances and the furtive clasping of hands in the back of an armored van or the belly of a tiltrotor.
Promises, that the one would always be there for the other, with cover fire, or a steadying hand, or a stiff drink, or whatever else the situation demanded. Promises, that when the mission was complete, when the gunfire had subsided and the smoke had cleared, when the enemy was securely behind bars or in the ground, they would find each other again. Promises, that if she felt herself being pulled away, as if by some invisible, inexorable hand, she would warn him, tell him how to find her. Promises, that once a year, regardless of where they were or what present crisis was throwing their lives into turmoil, they would find a private moment to hold each other close and sway in gentle time to a sad, soulful song by a long dead trumpeter.
Notes:
Hat tip to boathazard of Tumblr for the betting pool headcanon. I had my own ideas about how that wager would play out, but you can read their fantastic headcanons here: post/172024869402/batoumotoko-headcanons-ft-emotionally-illiterate