It was a warm summer afternoon and Giyuu was lazing in the sun at the front of the infirmary. Lazing of any sort was a relatively new activity for him, but it was one that he discovered he rather enjoyed, especially near the entrance to the infirmary where it was warm and bright for most of the day.
It was well into his third week on the job and it was quiet.
Really, it was only his third week on the job alone . He'd spent countless hours working with Azami - his wife - in the infirmary for almost a year, but about a month ago she began to truly feel too unwell to come in regularly. She was pregnant with their first child, but she was sick almost constantly. She was stubborn and had pushed herself past the point of good sense, so Giyuu and Emika - Azami's mother - came up with a plan to help.
As Giyuu had extensive training in field medicine from his time in the Demon Slayer Corps, and had often been forced to apply his knowledge to endeavor to save his own life until he could get to a wisteria house or the Butterfly Mansion, he had some idea of what he was doing. They also had the good fortune to live in a relatively safe and quiet village, so that helped keep truly life-threatening situations to a minimum. So while Azami undertook the difficult and tiring work of growing another human being using the resources of her own body, Giyuu manned the family business.
It was, for the most part, an easy assignment compared to his vocation as a Demon Slayer, and he found that he enjoyed the simple, measurable results of caring for the health and wellbeing of others.
This was how he found himself sitting in the sunlit doorway of the infirmary, sunning himself like a cat.
A shadow moved across his face, and he reached up a hand to shield his eyes so that he could see what was blocking the light.
A small child stood before him holding a box.
"Where is Isha-san?" the child asked in a serious tone.
Giyuu stood and peered down at her and she returned his gaze, her face solemn as she clutched the box protectively.
Giyuu was not good at judging the ages of children but he estimated that the girl standing before him was about five or six years old.
"Where is Isha-san?" she repeated, seeming to become impatient.
"She is at home resting."
"Is she sick?" the child asked directly, her stare unwavering.
"No."
"Why does she need rest?" she asked, her brows drawing together, and Giyuu got the distinct impression that the girl was questioning his credibility on the subject.
"She is tired," Giyuu sighed.
"Why is she tired?" the child asked relentlessly.
"Because she doesn't feel well," Giyuu responded, feeling an odd sense of being at a disadvantage in the conversation.
"So she is sick?"
"No."
"Then why doesn't she feel well?" The child tilted her head, and it was clear that she did not think that Giyuu knew what he was talking about at all.
"Because she is going to have a baby," Giyuu responded with a bit more vehemence than he'd meant to, but he found the interrogation to be very disconcerting. As it dawned on him that discussing the subject was probably improper on many levels, the girl interrupted his train of thought.
"Is it your baby?" the girl asked matter-of-factly, undeterred by his exasperation.
Giyuu's eyebrows flew up in mortification and incomprehension because too many questions entered his mind all at once. Was it okay to discuss such things in the light of day with a stranger – let alone an adult male stranger – and what did a child of five or six even know about the subject of babies?
His internal conflict over the propriety of the conversation was derailed when he tried to recall the details of his own education regarding the subject, and he remembered with no surprise at all that it was in fact Sabito who explained it to him, as he had explained so many things. At the time he had not wondered how Sabito came to possess such knowledge because to Giyuu – it always seemed – Sabito just knew things. But looking back it begged the question –
How had Sabito known about it?
He wondered vaguely if he was wrong about this – that in fact children knew more about the ways of life than he realized and the idea unnerved him.
Was his own child going to need to be taught this information?
He shuddered.
"Do you not know?" the child asked.
Giyuu was startled from his reverie, and he looked back down at her, as he had drifted off and started to stare down the street.
(Perhaps looking for help.)
"Do I not know what?"
"If the baby is yours?"
Giyuu was appalled but maintained his dignity by holding her gaze and not moving one even of his facial muscles other than to speak.
"I am Isha-san's husband."
"Oh. Okay," the child remarked in a distinctly unimpressed tone of voice and proceeded to stare at him.
Giyuu stared back impassively, but he wanted very badly for the child to leave. In fact, with the exception of the many demons he'd encountered over the years and occasionally Sanemi (and also sometimes Zenitsu), he failed to recall another being he had ever wanted to be around less.
After nearly a full minute of silence, Giyuu finally broke.
"Is there something I can help you with?"
The child looked at him skeptically for several beats before she responded.
"Isha-san helps me take care of my cricket, Janpu. He sometimes gets tired and needs special vitamins, so when I see he is sleeping for too long I bring him in and Isha-san gives him the vitamins and then he's not tired anymore. Like magic."
The girl did not take a single breath during the entire explanation and when she finished she gave him a smile that was bright and pure.
(And though it was not a smile of Tanjirou's – or even Nezuko's – caliber, it still dazzled.)
The child looked at Giyuu solemnly as she set the box down on the ground.
"Are you a doctor?"
"No."
The child frowned and looked off to the side as if she was considering something. She looked back at him with something like hope in her eyes.
"But you are married to Isha-san?"
"Yes."
That seemed to settle it for her and she removed the lid to the box and Giyuu bent down to peer into it.
Nestled carefully inside was the delicate body of a very dead cricket.
She picked up the box and held it out to him.
"Here. You can give him his vitamins."
Giyuu reached for the box reflexively – looking from the lifeless body of the little cricket to the dark, trusting eyes of the girl.
"I can't give him vitamins," he stated.
"Because you aren't the doctor?"
"No, because your cricket is dead," he said plainly.
There were five seconds of silence during which they continued to stare at one another and then suddenly the child screwed her eyes shut, opened her mouth, and began to wail.
It caught Giyuu off guard, startling him to such a degree that he rocked back on his heels, managing at the last moment to catch himself and hold onto the box. It took him a bit to realize what was happening and when he recognized his mistake he felt a sharp stab of regret.
He had failed to grasp the significance of the fact that the cricket was the girl's pet and therefore she had some attachment to it.
It was then that he recalled, with a fair measure of sorrow, that he greatly disliked the burden of being the one to tell people that someone they cared for was gone.
The child's grief was terrible and unreasonable, fat tears forming in her eyes and rolling down her cheeks. Her lamentation was loud and distressing - calling to mind the level of keening he'd witnessed from people upon learning of the deaths of their human companions - and Giyuu looked around for help.
Where were this girl's siblings? Did she have no sisters or brothers to mind her? Couldn't they have told her of the unfortunate fate of her cricket?
Why did it have to be him?
Giyuu tried to think of what to do to settle the child, but having no experience with children, he was at a loss.
The sobbing went on and on, him kneeling on the ground clutching the box, and the girl standing in front of him, tears falling in seemingly unending torrents down her sad little face. He thought about reaching out to pat her head – but not only was his single hand occupied with holding the box – but he also felt alarmed and unequal to the task – and so he just stayed with her and waited out the storm.
After what seemed like hours –
(and where was everyone else in the village anyway?)
– the girl seemed to master herself, her breath hitching painfully in her chest. She regarded Giyuu heavily.
"This is very sad," she said, still weeping lightly, her voice catching on the last word.
"Yes."
"He lived a really long time. I've had him since I was two years old."
The statement perplexed Giyuu a little, as he knew that crickets were not long-lived creatures, and he wondered if perhaps his estimation of her age had been off, though it could not be by nearly so much. He elected to keep this information to himself.
"You must have taken really good care of him," he stated pensively, hoping it was the right thing to say, and that it would not lead to more pain for the girl.
(Or time spent kneeling on the ground for him.)
The girl nodded.
"I tried really hard because he sang so sweetly for me."
The statement tugged at Giyuu's heart, but he said nothing.
They stayed in silence with one another for some time. After a while the girl looked around and wiped her face with her small hands. She took a deep, steadying breath before she spoke. "I need to go home. Okaa-san will expect me soon. And I'm sure that onii-chan will be cross with me for leaving without telling him that I went to the doctor to take care of Janpu. He doesn't understand why I love Janpu so much."
She looked bereaved.
Giyuu finally gave up and put down the box to pat her on the head.
She looked startled at first, but then accepted the gesture politely.
"Thank you for your help, Isha-san's husband."
Giyuu wondered how the girl thought he'd been any help at all as he felt like he'd done absolutely nothing.
"It's Tomioka."
"Oh! My apologies, Tomioka-sama."
"Just Tomioka is fine," Giyuu said, sighing.
The girl eyed him curiously, tilting her head.
"You are a strange man Tomioka." Her words were blunt, but delivered with a sweetness that left Giyuu strangely gratified.
Being strange was a lot nicer than being unlikable .
He nodded his head at her for several seconds before he responded with another sigh. "Yes."
She reached out and patted him on his head and he allowed it.
"I'm going now. Please tell Isha-san what happened."
He nodded at the child, thinking distractedly that he may need a cup of tea (or perhaps some sake) and a nap before that conversation happened.
She took her leave and Giyuu retreated into the infirmary, holding the box with the dead body of Janpu inside.
Giyuu remained safely inside the walls of the infirmary for the rest of the day.
–
When evening drew near, Emika arrived to fetch him.
"Giyuu-san, my dear, you look awful. What is the matter?"
He was laying on the examination table staring at the ceiling with his arm thrown over his forehead.
He pointed at Janpu's box.
Emika came over and peered into the box.
"Ahhh…I see. You met little Sachiko-chan. I trust you gave her a new Janpu."
Giyuu remained silent.
"Giyuu-san?"
"A new Janpu?" Giyuu repeated flatly.
"Yes. Azami keeps some crickets around in case Sachiko-chan stops in for Janpu's vitamins . The dear child is so attached to him. We've been wondering how to tell her the truth of the matter but Azami keeps putting it off."
Giyuu said nothing.
Emika came over to the examination table and stared down at him. He looked up at her imploringly. She held his gaze for several moments, drumming her fingertips on the table rhythmically. Her lips drew into a tight line.
"You told her the cricket was dead," she stated without a hint of blame in her voice, though she raised her brows.
He nodded at her.
"And she did not take it well?"
He shook his head.
She gave him a sympathetic smile.
"It goes that way sometimes. The girl is old enough to understand such things."
That wasn't the only thing the girl was old enough to understand apparently.
Giyuu elected to merely nod, pinching the bridge of his nose near his eyes with his fingertips. He felt very drained.
"Perhaps you did her a favor," Emika offered kindly.
Giyuu regarded her skeptically, feeling quite strongly that he'd done no one, especially the little girl (but including himself), any favors today.
Emika smiled at him and grasped his shoulder, pulling him up into a sitting position with more strength then he would have guessed possible.
"Come along. I've prepared dinner – your favorite. Things will seem better on a full stomach."
–
After dinner Azami and Giyuu stood in the kitchen drinking tea. Azami laughed gently when Giyuu told her what happened, reaching up to smooth his hair from his brow.
"Giyuu, did you never wonder why I kept crickets at the infirmary?" she asked in mild exasperation.
He regarded her coolly, remembering the enclosure on the back engawa vaguely.
"It may have crossed my mind, but I figured you had your reasons…perhaps something to do with making medicine."
"Medicine?" Azami, chuckled. "Did Kochou-san have insects that she used in her medical practice?"
Giyuu stiffened, but shifted to sip his tea in order to conceal his reaction.
"Not for medicine," he said quietly and left it at that.
Azami regarded him intently for several seconds before she sighed and let it go.
"I probably allowed it to go on for too long with Sachiko-chan anyway. She needed to learn eventually. Her father was the one who gave her crickets when she was little, and he died when she was very young. I just didn't want…" she trailed off.
Giyuu moved to her then, and put his arm around her shoulders.
"It was a kindness," he whispered, pressing his lips to her temple. He was silent and continued to hold her close. He turned his head and rested his chin on her forehead.
"It made me think," he began.
"Hmm?"
"That…maybe I'm not…. What if I'm not good at dealing with children? I think I almost broke one today," he admitted. "And over such a small thing."
He shifted his gaze to look down at the soft rise of where Azami's belly was beginning to protrude.
"I don't think death is a small thing for a child, even if it is a cricket, " Azami murmured gently. "And you said when she left she was okay, right?"
"Yes, she seemed to recover," he stated, squinting his eyes at the memory. "After a while."
"What did you do to help her?"
He paused, thinking.
"Not much really. I just sat with her while she cried. While she wailed, actually. It was very loud."
He shook his head, still feeling uneasy and unequal to the task.
"Hmm. So you just let her feel her sadness and kept her company?"
"I suppose that is what I did."
Azami looked up and turned to face him. She took his face in both of her hands.
"Giyuu, you will be a lovely father."
He regarded her with a raised brows. She pushed her finger into the furrow, smoothing it out.
"Azami, I'm not sure..." he trailed off.
"Well…you will just have to let me believe for the both of us."
Giyuu leaned toward her to press his forehead to hers, inhaling her breath.
He pondered her words in silence. He tried to imagine a little girl or boy looking up at him like Sachiko had, expecting him to know the right words to say – the right things to do. He tried to remember what it felt like to be confident and unwavering in his actions but the only time in his life when he felt that way was when he had held a sword.
He doubted the Demon Slayer Corps skill set was that adaptable.
But he had few choices other than to trust in his own ability to adapt.
A thought occurred to him.
"There aren't any other children who frequent the infirmary looking for vitamins for their crickets?"
Before Azami could answer he continued with mounting concern in his voice. "Or for their kittens or—"
Azami began to giggle, pressing her face into the crook of his neck before pulling back to look at him with mock seriousness. "Oh, yes, I have a network of people ready with a fresh batch of kittens at all times, a whole menagerie in fact, just in case."
Giyuu eyed her, knowing full well she was having quite a bit of fun at his expense. "Perhaps you need to make a list of some of the odder things you do for your patients Azami…broken bones are one thing. Broken hearts are another matter."
Azami regarded him softly then.
"Of course, my sweet husband. I'll make a list to keep you out of what trouble I can. But things will pop up unexpectedly…" she trailed off. "People can be unpredictable."
Giyuu thought about the unpredictable things he'd dealt with in the past, and how most of them had been handled with a sword.
Again he questioned the transferability of his skills.
"I'll do my best," he sighed.