General Disclaimer: I do not own Digimon or any of its characters. Their use in the following work of fan fiction is for entertainment purposes only.
[Author's Note: Yes, I know – it's two and a half months into 2025 and I'm updating a Christmas story. This wasn't what I wanted it to be last Christmas, but I also hadn't realized that I'd added 2,000 words since then, with a little more to come before I reach the shift to a closing arc. Therefore I decided to break this chapter-turned-middle-arc into two parts, which are hopefully each more readable in one sitting. Ah, the joys of process and the Providence of timing. Enjoy! – BMillsWrites]
We Traverse Afar
Chapter 3: The Hopes And Fears of All The Years, Part 1
Mr. Taiko Korkoro made sure to meet Cody Hida and the older pair with him at the exact spot where he and Cody had spoken earlier. The young Hida made naturally over-formal introductions, then stood back smiling as the two veteran Digidestined and the grownup man exchanged greetings. Taiko silently noted that Cody didn't have the same ease that had been Hiroki Hida's in making connections between people. Instead, the nine year-old had scaled up the formal inclinations the man had seen in the child's six year-old self, letting his formality become the bridge that two or more others could cross. That wasn't to close himself off from others, but to actually make sure he obligated himself not to isolate like that. It was completely different, but just as charming.
Korkoro helpfully showed TK where he could store his – or rather Kari's – purchases for safe keeping. Then the man led the three children to the back of the store's public area, and into the back that was normally for employees only. The walkways in the employee section were narrow to afford as much space as possible for its rooms, and the work done in them. A sign on the door of one such room identified it as the "Workshop". It was hardly an industrial cavern, but the space available was used efficiently for minor repairs and storage, and it was apparently suitable for a modest gathering. A small contingent of people were already in the room waiting for them: Danyi Uta and her Mom, as well as the security man, Mr. Soku. With those waiting respectively bored, tense, and impatient and the newcomers determined and concerned, the man who got them all together asked to delay any necessary introductions just long enough to observe Cody Hida, the son of a police officer, respectfully return the uniform hat – restoring the store's honor in displaying that profession.
Cody realized instantly that Mr. Korkoro-san was leaving out the biggest detail, but this opportunity wasn't about knowing. After all, TK, Kari and Danyi knew that his Dad was tragically dead – and probably Danyi had told her Mom in explaining meeting Cody. This ceremony was about showing meaning. What did it mean to Cody to handle living with the reality of that loss as a day to day part of who he truly was. Cody believed he'd shared that meaning with his Mom, his Grandpa, and with Yolei. It would be safer to keep the particular circle of that sharing small … but, by sharing, maybe Danyi would process her grief in a better way. Maybe Mrs. Uta would understand even more about Danyi's impulsive reactions. Maybe Mr. Soku wouldn't be so quick to assume the worst. Safer was safer, but sometimes safer wasn't the right choice. The boy nodded to their host, "I'm ready Mr. Korkoro-san."
The man had the knack for arranging details that was part of telling convincing stories. He dimmed the central lights in the workshop for a "more dignified setting." This allowed him to gesture the boy toward the police officer mannequin as it lay face up on the workbench between two lamps clamped at either end. A conspicuously cleared aisle to the figure gave the utilitarian space the aspect of a chapel. The effect on the young Hida was undeniable, and no one else in the room could ignore that.
The shift in Cody's perspective intensified with every step he took. He acutely remembered all the events that surrounded his Dad's death that he was aware of. That certainly included the memorial visitation on the eve of the funeral. This kind of remembering liked to sneak up and overwhelm Cody. He'd be the first to admit that it still could. Yet, Cody Hida was getting better at processing his intense memories – experiencing them while letting who he was now stay in control. Such control – if it lasted – let nine year-old Cody handle the remembered experience in a way that six year-old Cody simply could not. The visitation had been inadequate for little Cody. The casket was closed. Sympathetic shock that bad men had killed his Dad had rendered the boy temporarily mute. The mistaken belief that responsibility had to end his childhood had closed Cody off from the care he needed from others. There had been no one last look for six year-old Cody, no words to vent his sorrow, not even tears as long as he could stubbornly hold them back. Now, nine-year-old Cody was stepping into that chapel again. He could feel the chill of a room just cold enough to be uncomfortable. He could smell the vague waxy sweetness of that room. In his mind's eye the image of his younger-self stood silent and falsely stoic before the figure ahead. The boy-image faced a closed casket while the real child approached an intentionally visible symbolic representation which made an opportunity to do better clear. Nine year-old Cody stepped into his younger image, presenting himself to the remembered situation, but responding to it as who he'd grown to be.
First things were rightly first. The mannequin's hands now framed a space on its torso that anticipated the hat's ceremonious return. A conveniently placed step unit invited approach and access to the figure, and Cody took the opportunity. The hat was carefully placed in just the right way – as if it were looking outward between the hands as its gateway, its bill and badge directed toward the service of others. All at once, the hat became both the object of a six year-old's desire to hold fast and the nine year old's reminding realization of having to let go. The remembered six year-old's anguish yielded, as it already had, to his nine year-old self's still aching experience. Cody released his grip, and the hat rested untouched – restored as part of a complete uniform, and completely affirmed in its meaning for Cody Hida. His Dad was a police officer and honoring Dad as Officer Hiroki Hida would always deserve the complete rightness of a full uniform. Honoring Dad as someone who wanted Cody Hida to become his own person didn't have any uniform. One sense of honor, now undisturbed again, allowed the youngest Hida to continue living the other sense of honor without being as bothered as seeing the wrecked display had made him earlier.
Cody stepped down and backed away a couple of steps, still facing the prone mannequin. Before turning back to his friends and the others watching, he believed there was one more thing he could do in solidarity with what his six year-old aspect had wanted to do, but had not. Combining a six year-old's love-you-forever reverence with a nine year old's courageous certainty that Dad still loved him right back – now and forever, tears flowed from Cody's eyes and down his round cheeks, and it was that face that he let the others see. The youngest Hida drew his right sleeve in a dignified swipe across his face while taking in a shaky breath. He'd steady both his breath and himself before rejoining – suddenly, Danyi Uta's face was very close when his tended eyes opened again.
For a moment they were silent together, then the girl briefly looked past the boy to the mannequin before making sure she was eye to eye with Cody Hida again. "I was only mad about seeing the fireman, honest. My Dad was a fireman, and I just got so mad. I pushed that one down like … like I was watching somebody else do it. The fireman knocked the policeman over backwards. That's why it was face up. I really lost it after that." She gasped in sudden realization, "When you came and saw the policeman just lying there like that it, I guess it reminded you about your Dad –," The ways that a policeman might suddenly die flashed through Danyi Uta's mind and imagination – then she barely breathed in asking, "Accidental, like what happened to my Dad?"
It was a brave question – one that wanted to know the real debt of her angry outburst – it deserved the bravest answer. "No," he admitted softly.
His answer opened Danyi's eyes wide both physically and emotionally. "I don't know what to say to that Cody. I don't know the right thing to say, or do, or feel anymore about anything! Today was supposed to be a good day, a fun day out Christmas shopping with Mom, but the second I see something that reminds me of Dad, I'm knocking over a Christmas tree, throwing anything I can get my hands on, busting the holiday happy buzz again, … and making you sad." She looked responsively over to Taiko Korkoro for the first time, "I'm sorry. I couldn't make myself stop." She looked back to Cody as the only person who'd possibly be able to understand and explain. "I can't make the hurting stop, it just keeps coming back! When will it, or does it ever?!" The last of Danyi Uta's assertive composure crumpled and she started to cry. For whatever reason she had – balance, apology, even comfort – the girl wrapped her arms around the nearest source of steadiness within reach, Cody Hida himself.
Cody had inevitable experience being hugged – particularly as his Mom's right and Yolei's self-asserted privilege. Becoming a Digidestined had brought the small boy less frequently within appropriately discrete "hugging range" of the older Sora and Kari too. Mannerly tolerance endured that. There were admittedly times when memories still brought him to tears, and he never regretted letting someone make that their opportunity to hug him. That's why, when Danyi Uta clung to him with surprising tightness, he let her. He assessed himself as being bad at this sort of thing. The raspy "Oof," the reflexively rigid jolt down his spine, and the searing glow of an obvious blush couldn't be all that initially comforting. Yet, when all that passed and she still clung – he let her … he just let her.