Yagami's Little Girl – Father
Written By: RinoaDestiny
King of Fighters and Iori Yagami belong to SNK Playmore
Greetings: It's been about seven years since I've written fanfiction, let alone returned to any of my pending stories. Since Kyo and Iori decided to visit my dreamscape being assholes to each other (go figure, right?), it kinda got the writing bug started again for this story. So, hello again in 2018 with this much-delayed update!
Little Aoi – tiny, fragile, and trusting – lay at the center of two things: the first, a comfortable crib Iori had prepared for her (Hello Kitty blanket included); the second, a sentimental attachment to the thing Iori considered his heart. The latter had its uses, insomuch as Iori liked to deny the feelings that came from it. However, with his daughter sleeping peacefully among pastel colors and stuffed animals, the young fighter surrendered to those sentiments. He'd done it for Michiru, hadn't he?
With the shadow of grief over his wife's death still lingering, Iori sat hunched over in the chair by Aoi's crib, gangly limbs drawn in. He'd had time to think since taking Aoi home, and seconds, minutes, and hours added up in the hourglass of his mind and kept accumulating. Considerations came and went. Some solidified and stayed, while others continued shaping into thoughts he'd hope were concrete.
One: Aoi was not a Yagami by name, but she was by blood.
Two: Since she was female, her being his heir carried certain expectations. He'd have to be vigilant against those expectations coming to past.
Three: He didn't want the clan guardians to know. Keeping this secret was absolutely critical.
Four: She should have a normal life, but how?
Five: Making time for his daughter between his band, the yearly King of Fighters tournaments (and not being incapacitated, missing in action, or possibly killed), and keeping tabs on his rival Kyo Kusanagi. It was a full schedule and the mental shuffling hurt his brain.
Six: Keeping that goddamn Orochi out of this. That deranged deity liked taunting him, and if he picked his brain too much, Iori was afraid word would get out anyway.
Seven: If he underwent the Riot of Blood, he'd haul ass away from Aoi as fast as possible. He was not about to become his daughter's murderer by ill luck of the curse, and he would never not feel responsible if it happened. Which it wouldn't.
Eight: He was a dad. Aoi's father.
It was this consideration that Iori finally circled back to and confirmed. Not that it intimidated him – okay, not by much – but there was meaning there. He'd already known this back at the hospital but now, in his apartment with her next to him, it was tangible. All of his previous thoughts circled around this aspect. He'd been an adult for a while, but now he was a dad and he meant to take it seriously.
Unwinding his limbs from their compressed state, Iori stood and stepped towards the crib. His legs tingled, and he told himself it was from the blood circulation, not from going utterly soft. Aoi's thumb was in her mouth; her eyes were closed. He'd never seen anything more perfect – he'd seen a lot in his brief life – and he knew he'd lost. He was going soft, dammit. His daughter was beautiful and if he lived long enough, he was going to have his hands full scaring off potential boyfriends.
If he lived long enough. His chest tightened at the thought.
Mature and Vice had warned him when he took back his magatama that he'd be re-inheriting the curse with it. They weren't wrong; yet, he thought he did right by himself. The flames – the power, the potential – were as much a part of him as the clan name he bore. Thinking about it now, though…
Iori shrugged. He'd cross that bridge when the time came.
For now, he only had eyes for his little girl. "Aoi," he whispered, leaning against the side of her crib. "Aoi." She yawned – the tiny mouth gaping – and settled against the pink Hello Kitty blanket, one chubby fist brushing past a plush yellow cat with gleaming glass eyes.
Then, her thumb was back in her mouth and Iori had never seen a baby so content. He reached out to stroke her cheek, which was baby-smooth.
If this was fatherhood, it was probably going to kill him.
Kyo would probably goggle at the sight and then laugh. Well, let him laugh. He wondered when his rival was going to grow up – mentally, not physically (though NESTS got him serious) – and have his own kid to continue the bloodline. Probably when Kusanagi's old man and girlfriend got tired of waiting for him to sink roots. Maybe they've already started heckling him; hence why Kyo was often out on unmentioned errands or training (Iori knew).
He yawned, almost falling sideways across Aoi's crib.
Time to sleep and keep his daughter company.
"Yes, it's strange coming from me. No, I'm not…seriously, Mako?" Iori asked, shifting the phone against his ear and wincing as a muscle smarted in the nape of his neck. "I'm not asking for much. Just some help." Across from him, the analog clock subtly shifted hands, aiming for two-thirty with the seconds tick-tocking by. Iori snorted. "I trust you, that's why. Answer enough?"
The line fell silent but only briefly. "Okay, Yagami-san. I'll come over tonight."
"She's only a few days old but she won't stop crying sometimes." Aoi's prolonged crying left Iori at a loss and often needing sleep during daylight hours. The diaper changing and bottle feeding he was getting down cold, but the constant crying frazzled his already shot nerves. On certain days, he awoke with large bags under his eyes. Small wonder his father put him with the nursemaids – his father had no patience for that after his mother died giving birth to him.
"Okay. I have a packed schedule, but I might be able to make nine."
"That'll do," Iori said, cracking his neck to loosen the sore muscle. Must've slept wrong. "I'll be here." For once, he didn't have band practice, even if Mako did.
"See you then, Yagami-san."
Ending the call and pocketing the phone in his jeans, Iori quickly returned to his task of removing a medium-sized cardboard box off the living room shelf. Even with his height, he needed a stepladder for safety's sake – being killed by some stupid accident outside of the tournament was a sobering thought – and he grabbed the box carefully before heading down. Once on terra firma, Iori placed the box on the floor, plopped down next to it, and split the masking tape open with one of his long nails.
Inside were some old items of his, along with Michiru's when she ran out of boxes to pack her stuff. Iori had suggested they share a box, to which she'd happily agreed. Gently, he removed them one by one. Michiru liked reading books (particularly fantasy) and out of the four novels, one caught his eye. It was based on Japanese mythology, which Iori enjoyed, and it seemed appropriate for when Aoi grew up. He placed it off to the side; perhaps, he'd read it himself. His collection of old guitar picks (some yellowed with age and wear), a stash of jazz CDs by the greats like Coltrane, Miles Davis, and some prominent bands with wonderful bassists, and some plastic identification cards (he looked so young in those). At the very bottom was a small photo album, which Michiru insisted they keep.
In this, he'd listened to her – though grudgingly at the time – and he was glad he did. There were enough mementos to remember her by.
He flipped through the album, plastic pages falling away from his slender fingers.
As he progressed through it, Iori frowned. Did he really look so…bored? He was with his wife in these pictures, for fucks sake. At least he smiled in a few. It said a lot when he probably evinced more feeling chasing Kyo than when he was on photo duty with Michiru. That sounds wrong, Iori thought. It really did. It probably was. Think of something else, okay?
Being with Michiru changed his wardrobe, to say the least. He couldn't always go around in his long dress shirt, cropped uniform with the crescent moon on the back, and his bondage pants forever. Those took a hiatus in the depths of his closet, along with his favorite red long coat that he only hauled out for live house nights. With his money, he bought some t-shirts, sweaters and turtlenecks for the winter and a few more pairs of jeans (without ripped knees). He also invested in the next set of clothes for the inevitable King of Fighters tournament. If Kyo was doing wardrobe changes, so could he.
The photos spanned seasons. Michiru's favorite lime-and-aqua tanktop. His lavender shirt pinstriped with white. The hairpin that glittered in her hair. The lilac she'd stuck in his hair as a joke (then took a picture of). He was scowling in that one but she was merry. The pretty dress he'd gotten her three months after they'd tied the knot. The fashionable jacket she'd purchased for him with extra room to accommodate his broad shoulders. He remembered she'd liked bold and bright colors; she'd remembered his favorite colors of red, purple, black, and white.
Would Aoi like blue? Only time would tell.
At the end of the album, the final picture surprised him. Michiru in her cheerful red-and-white knitted sweater with snowflakes and he in his midnight violet turtleneck, back to back with her on the couch. The shot was taken from above – he could see her extended arm in frame – and while she was smiling, he was…sleeping? Dozing off? It couldn't be, but it was. There was a faint look of contentment on his face.
Iori blinked, looked again, and then chuckled.
Married life had suited him, after all.
It was the ticking of the clock that brought him back. The hands pointed at three exact. Reluctantly, Iori placed the album aside, dusted off the seat of his pants, and headed for the kitchen. He needed a late lunch, a quick check on Aoi, and then a power nap and in that order.
The doorbell rang. It was five to nine. Iori breathed a sigh of relief, patted Aoi on the back, and began heading for the front door. Tonight was one of those nights. She'd been wailing around eight and no matter how much he cradled her, sung to her, or even massaged her tiny back, she kept crying. Even with his nap in the afternoon, he was now worn and exhausted on his feet, and Mako couldn't have come at a better time.
The door almost flew off its hinges. "Mako, glad you made it."
The dark-eyed, dark-haired woman with square-framed glasses raised an eyebrow. He was so close to her that he could see the stripe of highlighted bronze in her upswept coif. It reminded him of Mature. "Yagami-san," she said, greeting him. "You might want to close the door before your neighbors complain."
He let her in, of course. Like most women he knew, she swept in, checked out his place in a heartbeat, dumped her purse and umbrella on the nearest chair, and rounded on him as he returned from door duty. "When you told me you had a kid, I'd thought you'd gone off the deep end."
"You asked if I was drunk or stoned."
"You having a kid –"
"As you can see, it's possible," Iori said, biting back the abrasive snap he wanted to give it. "Can you help, Mako?"
"What do you need help with?"
"This." Just as he finished speaking, Aoi's wails started again, increasing in pitch and intensity. He swore it nearly deafened him. "She cries like this sometimes and I can't…. I don't know what's causing it."
"Hand her over."
For the second time that night, Iori was relieved. Mako – her real name being Yuriko Kawashiro – was their lead singer, highly reliable, and not a gossipmonger. Both of the latter points scored well in Iori's view, which was why he trusted her not to spill on his secret. Gossip and rumor mills in the band scene quickly overflowed into everything else and he used his real name as star bassist. Should anyone link him with the tournament contenders, he'd have trouble on his hands. Not only would the Kusanagi clan rear up like an aggressive hound and put pressure on Kyo, but he knew – goddamn, he knew – that the Orochi heavyweights that still remained would come flocking. On top of that, the Yagami clan guardians would cause him no end of turmoil and he did not need that right now.
Just the mere thought made him shudder.
"You okay, Yagami-san?" She was a natural with Aoi, patting her on the back and making those "shhh" sounds Iori himself made only an hour ago. "You don't look so good."
"I'm fine," he said. Shit. He'd let his mask slip.
"What's her name?"
"Aoi."
"Pretty name for a pretty girl." Mako turned her head to look at him, setting the dangling silver earrings she wore ablaze with lamplight. "Did you feed her yet?" Did Mako have her own family? If she did, did she have kids? Iori didn't know.
"A few hours ago."
"Is she sick?"
"I don't think so."
"She's probably uncomfortable, then. Can't be colic."
"Colic?" Iori asked, unsure what new landmine he'd stepped in.
"Yeah, colic." Mako took a seat on his couch and Iori, unable to do anything, hovered. He was fully aware that his usual body language now had a nervous edge to it. He couldn't do anything with his hands, so they went into his pockets but that made him feel useless. Hovering about the two like an idiot would've been disastrous around the wrong woman, but Mako sensed his concern. At least she didn't call him a creep. "Usually hits babies around the second week, so if she's gonna have it, it'll be later. For now, you might want to dress her more comfortably."
As Iori watched, Mako loosened the two top buttons on Aoi's pajamas. Her cries began to lessen and the flush on her skin went down. "Poor dear, she's sweating in this. Does she have a nightgown? Something looser?"
"I'll check."
"This might be why she's crying. You have her bundled like a sausage, cute as it looks."
"Oh." Heat prickled his face; he was turning red.
Mako cooed over Aoi, then looked up at him and grinned. "You know, Yagami-san…you look rather endearing right now."
He scowled. "Don't. It's nothing. Just –"
"I get it. First time as a dad. You have to learn the ropes and all. If I may ask, where's the mother? Is she still in the hospital?"
It was too soon, and Iori felt the ache of her absence. For a second, he couldn't find the words, and then he said something to cover the silence. "She's gone. She didn't survive." It's your curse, of course. You knew it. She only knew she had a significantly higher risk of dying – you fed her some bullshit about it running in your family. Convenient little lie, isn't it?
Mako had the grace to look away, embarrassed. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked."
"You didn't know," Iori said, his voice hoarse. "You see why I need some help?"
"Yes. Is this on a regular basis?"
"Only 'til I get this down."
"That might take a while." Mako considered him behind her glasses, earrings flashing as she diverted her attention from Aoi to him. "Will I be expecting phone calls at ungodly hours, Yagami-san? I have a full schedule most days, and even you can't skip band practice if we need it. I might be available for emergencies, but you need to consider a babysitter for her."
That's too many people that know. Out of the question. "I'll make time."
"So long as you haul ass into practice, we're square. Her?"
Do I need to repeat myself? "I'll take care of it."
"Hmph." Then, the woman smiled, looking down at his daughter. Iori saw her thumb in her mouth, sleeping contently in Mako's arms. For tonight, one problem had been solved. Mako apparently believed the same, since she stood and held out Aoi to him. "Looks like I've done my part, Yagami-san. The rest is yours."
"Give her to me," he said, somewhat huskily. Having Aoi safe in his arms brought him some measure of comfort. If only Michiru was here…
"I'll see my way out. Text me next time."
"Will do." And thanks, even if I never tell you. "See you in two weeks."
Mako grinned. "If you don't show up, I'll complain to the sponsor and have him wring your ear."
"See you, Mako."
The locks clicked and it was just him and Aoi once more. He mentally added the nightgown to his list, decided to see if there was an alternative later, but considered most of it for tomorrow. Right now, he just wanted to cherish this time. He was bone-weary, about to fall on his face but something told him to hold onto this as a treasure.
It wasn't going to last, his heart said, and for him, that was to be expected.
Time waited for no man, but it was particularly harsh on him.