Chapter 3: Hansha - Reverberation

Sometimes it seemed like Ichijou had spent all his life caught between what he wanted and what he needed to do. The duties that bound him--to fulfill the task that his father was not able to finish--did not allow him to fulfill his heart's longing. So he'd taken that need, set it aside, laid it to rest. Most days it didn't bother him that he would never have what others did. He had his job, after all, and he liked it. He was good at it. There was a certain indefinable satisfaction at catching a thief, a kidnapper, a murderer. It challenged the speed and agility of both his mind and body, and he wouldn't give it up for anything.

Still, a part of him whispered as he looked up from the paperwork he'd brought home, looked at the red roses Godai had brought to brighten his apartment, there was that want of someone with whom he could share his life fully. It wasn't that he didn't have friends, or that he didn't love his mother very much, but at the end of the day Ichijou came home to an empty apartment, usually with paperwork in hand. People might kid him about it, but no one ever questioned why a young workaholic detective didn't have a girlfriend. The answer was, after all, obvious. He didn't have time. He was married to his job.

Ichijou set down his pen and reached out to touch a rose, its crimson petal a living satin against his finger. He was still wearing the bracelet Godai had given him, he realized. He wondered if he should take it off, but the silver was warm and the bracelet's grasp comfortable against his skin. That probably meant something, but he wouldn't let himself think about it. If he made that choice, it could ruin everything he'd worked for. Even a hint of that choice--a whisper, a rumor--could derail his career. To an extent, he could understand why. No matter how capable he was, how competent, his fellow officers would never be able to look at him again without a voice in the back of their heads asking how he was looking at them. Without that implicit trust, his career would be over.

He let his hand fall away from the flower and picked up the pen again. He looked at the murder scene photographs arrayed before him without really seeing them. He'd considered options, of course. He could simply lie, using words like "best friend" and "housemate." He'd even thought about quitting the police force altogether and becoming a private detective. It was also possible to request a transfer to Tokyo, where most of the police force knew and liked Godai. Only the third option seemed to hold any hope, but even then, how long until it was forgotten, what Godai had done as Kuuga, and subtle yet unmistakable repercussions rained down for not being what a proper police detective was "supposed" to be?

Ultimately, Ichijou admitted to himself, he didn't know what he really thought or wanted. In a way he almost wished he'd never met Godai, to not have this confusion in his life, to not feel like this. But that thought, of never having met Godai at all, carried pain, and he knew he could never actually wish things that way. Knowing Godai had changed him and he never wanted to be without that difference, that strength.

For Godai Yuusuke it might be possible to make anything happen, with his can-dos and indefatigable smile. But for Ichijou Kaoru... that might not be possible.

Yuusuke had had nightmares for months, waking in a cold sweat in the middle of the night gasping for air, thinking he was still locked in that last battle with Daguba, bleeding from his heart and soul as much as from his body, unable to win as the Grongi leader laughed, rejoicing in pain, matching him blow for blow, kick for kick.

He'd taken Daguba down, but it was Ichijou, with the special bullets Doctor Enokida had developed, who had delivered the final blow. Yuusuke now thought he had a reference for what hell was like: being trapped in that icy battle forever, never able to make a difference, to win, to stop the Grongi from killing everyone he loved for no reason... for a game.

It was in a way a relief when Doctor Tsubaki put the latest batch of X-rays up and revealed that the Amadam belt was still threaded through with cracks, months after the damage had occurred. The last time the stone had been damaged it had healed itself within days. This time... Yuusuke had the feeling it might never be able to repair itself.

"So Kuuga's gone, then," the doctor said eventually.

"No," Yuusuke replied, shaking his head. He formed his hand into a fist and tapped it against his chest, over his heart. "Kuuga's here."

Tsubaki looked at him for a minute, then nodded, smiling. "Still," he said, turning off the light box, "this means you can't transform any more."

Yuusuke half shrugged. "I don't need to, do I?"

"Heh." The doctor slouched back in his chair and changed the subject. "So, I heard you had a date with Ichijou last night."

Yuusuke's eyebrows shot up, surprised. "Oyassan told you?"

Tsubaki shook his head. "Sawatari-san."

"Ohhh?" Yuusuke inquired, voice tilting up to form a verbal question mark. "She didn't mention a date with you!"

Tsubaki reddened just slightly and coughed into one hand. "Yes, well. I kind of surprised her."

Yuusuke grinned. "How did it go?"

"Well..." Then the doctor stopped short. "How did we get to that? We were talking about your date with Ichijou!"

"But it's more interesting talking about other people, isn't it?" Yuusuke persisted.

Tsubaki just looked at him, then looked away, studying the x-rays again even though the light box was off. "You do know about Ichijou, don't you?" he asked.

"Know about...?" Yuusuke parroted, unsure what the doctor was implying.

"I've known him since high school. He's never had a date in all that time. I've drawn my own conclusions," the doctor said. Yuusuke nodded, adding the information to his own conclusions about Ichijou. "He's a friend. I've already had to patch him up too often. I don't want to add a broken heart to his charts."

"It'll be all right," Yuusuke said, giving Tsubaki a thumbs-up. "It will," he promised.

The doctor just looked at him for a long moment, then nodded, returning the gesture.

By the end Godai had been miserable, Ichijou thought, staring up at the ceiling. He'd kept his course, willing to sacrifice himself to stop the last of the Grongi, but he'd been more deeply unhappy than Ichijou thought he'd ever seen another person, fighting battle after battle that he'd never wanted to fight, seeing soul-scarring things that he hadn't had either the training or counseling to be able to ignore.

Godai would never be a policeman. He had the heart for it, and the brains, but not the soul. He was too gentle. It was strange, to think of the person who had spent an entire year fighting as Kuuga in those terms, but somehow Godai was. Just because he could fight didn't mean he was suited to. No, somehow Ichijou couldn't picture Godai anywhere other than the places he already was: behind the counter of the PorePore, surrounded by children at the Wakaba Preschool, and a part-time student of life at Jounan University.

"-jou-san! Ichijou-san!" Sound came suddenly back into focus.

"Sorry," Ichijou apologized immediately to Kameyama. "My mind was elsewhere."

"I guessed that," the junior beat cop replied sardonically. "Here. The Kitamaru case." He handed a thick folder to Ichijou.

"Sorry," Ichijou apologized again with a small bow, accepting the manila folder.

"Honestly," Kameyama pouted. "Don't try to tell me you were out late on a date last night."

Ichijou smiled and opened the folder. "Hardly. A friend came over and we ate in."

"Anyone I know?"

"A friend from Tokyo," Ichijou replied absently, leafing through the pages. There was something between the photos and the witness statements that didn't add up, he thought, frowning.

"Darn. And here I was hoping you finally had a girlfriend," Kameyama joked, walking off.

"Who has time?" Ichijou automatically replied, then stopped, the thin weight of the paper still between his fingers.

Time.

Would it be fair to Godai, to ask anything like that of him? Ichijou had been involved in shootouts more times than he cared to think about. His own father, like those of many of his colleagues, had worked hard but still failed to come home one day. He didn't have armor to stop bullets, or knives, or a shove in the back over a high railing...

He would have to think about it later, Ichijou decided, and ask his mother why she'd married a policeman when she surely had to have known about that kind of danger. And ask if she'd make the same choice again, knowing what she knew now.