Title: "Patience is a Virtue" and Other Lies

Word Count: 984

Summary: The virtues of patience, Saitou decided sourly, were severely overrated.

A/N: This one's a little angsty. And may offend those sensitive to language (this is Saitou we're talking about here…). And a "violent" image or two that might make a few people wince or say "Eeww—gross!" But that's all. I think.

It was amazing, he fumed, how she could make him feel like such a fucking idiot without actually trying.

Like today, for example. Today he had discovered, via Shiori, that Tokio had gone out on a date the night before last.

Apparently, it had gone swimmingly.

How nice for her.

Meanwhile, he wondered how he could go about getting the guy's full name in a not-at-all-suspicious manner so that the jack-off could have an unfortunate accident and be unable to take her out…ever again.

This wasn't the first time this had happened. She'd mentioned this sort of crap to Shiori before, and while it had made him grind his back teeth together when he found out about it (because Shiori had an annoying talent for "accidentally" letting that sort of information slip out in front of him), he'd borne it with good grace, even if his mood was shit for the rest of the day. But he'd never gotten details, just a mention. So the fact that Shiori had provided him with more than the usual "Did-you-know-Tokio-san-had-a-date-the-other-night?" had been a very unpleasant surprise for him. One which was making it very hard for him to do what he was currently doing: stand next to Tokio while she and Shiori talked about some inane woman thing or another, while he silently stewed over how she'd told Shiori all about her wonderful dinner date with Asshole (as Saitou had decided to christen her date), and how much fun she'd had and all that shit that had been sadistically relayed to him just prior to Tokio's arrival.

He'd rather have a root canal without the anesthesia.

Or commit seppuku without the luxury of a second.

Anything but listen "politely" to them and pretend like he didn't mind that she'd had fun on a date with some douche bag.

Gods, he hated Asshole right now.

There had to be a law against this, he thought, about six exits passed pissed at this point on the Highway to Hell. There had to be. Because this was so fucking inhumane it wasn't even funny. He was able to handle it when the dates turned out bad (and he was pretty sure he contributed to that in some way, what with all the ill will he sent all her prospective dates' ways), because it meant she wasn't going to be seeing the retards again and they were out of the running. But Saitou wasn't altogether sure he was in the running, because Tokio was so fucking infuriating and never gave him anything that might give him a clue. More than once, he'd had the awful suspicion that she saw him as nothing more than a good friend, and while that was okay (he guessed), it wasn't what he had in mind.

His jaw tightened painfully and his left eyelid twitched.

Were you supposed to torture your good friends like this?

You know—if you weren't Saitou and Okita (who were special, so the usual rules didn't apply)?

"What are you sulking about?" Tokio asked curiously, and he looked over at her to find her watching him as if she had no idea she was making him seriously consider hunting Asshole down and setting him on fire.

…'Cause she doesn't, fucktard, he thought irritably.

"Nothing," he muttered; the knowing look on Shiori's face didn't help his shitty mood.

"Sure?" Tokio asked.

"Yeah, don't worry about it," he said. "It's…work…crap."

She smiled kindly.

"Wanna talk about it? Bet you'd feel better," she said cheerfully.

"I'm good, thanks," he replied, feeling stupid.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

She gave his arm a sympathetic pat and he felt even stupider for appreciating it as much as he did.

Gods, he was turning into a pussy.

Thankfully—or maybe not, depending on your outlook—Shiori changed the topic to something he could chime in on, and gradually the urge to kill shit (read: Asshole) left the forefront of his mind. It was still floating around back there somewhere, but it wasn't as insistent as before (though that wouldn't keep him from carefully storing away Asshole's real name for future use should it slip), and he was able to loosen up a little.

He really wanted a smoke, though.

Like, bad.

They spoke for a while longer, and then she left before him; he was off today, so he didn't have anywhere he needed to be (actually, that was a lie—he was supposed to be helping his father with the A/C unit in his grandfather's bedroom that had crapped out a day ago, but he was feeling sulky and mean and he was out of cigarettes, besides; best that he have no contact with his screwy old man right now…for everyone's sakes).

He was mildly disappointed that she didn't let Asshole's name slip, but he supposed he could wait for her to go out on another date (twitch twitch) with him and hope Shiori was more forthcoming with information.

Because from what he'd understood, a second date was in order.

Ooo, goodie—he got to do this all over again.

He glared venomously at the countertop, wishing he had something to kill right the fuck now to make him feel better. Unfortunately, he was going to have to wait until he had a name, an address and a place to dump the body (the place to dump the body would be the least of his problems—there were a lot of perks to being one of the most feared men in the MPD).

Fuck. This was like being back with the department all over again, being on assignment and doing recon and gathering Intel and sitting on his ass, waiting for shit to happen. The waiting was the worst part—it was hard to feel like you were doing anything when you didn't have shit to show for it.

The virtues of patience, Saitou decided sourly, were severely overrated.