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Chapter Text

Majima turned the words around in his head over and over and over, crafting the apology and pulling and twisting words until it sounded as sincere as he could make it. Not two minutes later he'd be struck with a bolt of panic, tear the apology apart, start over again, only to have something similar but with a few small changes. In his head he formatted it so it was comfortably formal and proper, but he knew as soon as he opened his mouth his tongue would thicken and it'd be nothing but Kansai, Kansai, Kansai. If he even managed to keep language about him.

In the midst of probably the sixth or seventh redo of the apology in his head he looked up from the park bench to see her. Shooting up to his feet, his eye nervously glanced around. They had agreed to meet far away from Kamurocho, where just this morning he had stepped over at least two hypodermic needles and one used condom. He didn't think much of it—this was a nice park, lots of big, twisting old trees—but all the same he stuck out like a sore thumb. It made it harder to speak as she spotted him within seconds and smiled.

Hey, hi, hello Makoto sorry for not seeing ya for two years and eight months—and half a week—and—and, I'm...

Majima froze. Makoto wasn't alone. In her hand—the one that still had the watch around her wrist—was another hand. Small, pudgy, gripping harder the moment the tyke saw him. He swallowed, hard, his eye not leaving the little girl at her mother's side. The girl in question pressed herself flat to Makoto's leg, making it momentarily difficult to walk. Makoto was undeterred and only smirked in love, ushering the child forward. Majima was sure his gulp was audible.

“It's been a while, hasn't it?” Makoto's voice was clear and clean like spring water, not nearly the horrific mess he felt himself, “Goro...,”

He nodded dumbly, still looking at the kid who similarly couldn't take her eyes off of him. She was dressed comfortably but cutely, in those grapefruit pinks and oranges he had come to associate with her mother. His gut was getting cold—Makoto having a kid meant she had a family, meaning that she had called him for this visit out of a courtesy, to let him know that—

“She's yours,”

His eye flicked to Makoto, more because she made a sound than anything, then, as soon as he registered what she had said, his eye widened and fixated on the girl, wide and stunned. The girl didn't like it one bit, and her stare became a glare as she hid half her face behind Makoto's leg. He couldn't help it now even moreso than before—now he was really studying her features even though they were still masked with fat and rounder shapes. Sure, the girl looked like Makoto—but he noticed her elbows were a little sharper along with her knees, her fingers longer than he would expect from a tot. Certainly that glare had been inherited from him, though all the same he remembered a time when Makoto could conjure up something as volatile as that, and it wasn't as long ago as it felt.

“Wh...B...,” Majima stammered, “I didn...I didn't know, or call, or—,”

A thought struck him and he looked up at Makoto. Neither had she. She frowned, hesitant and disturbed, and let go of the girl's hand to press her head to her thigh.

“I...didn't want anything to happen,” she answered quietly, which at first shot a boulder through his chest but he softened rather quickly. After all, if he was being honest with himself, he would've wanted it as secret as possible. Plus...he remembered what she said about what the doctors feared should something like this come to pass. Jump too early and maybe they would suffer—although the idea of her suffering alone, again, was something he'd rather not dwell on. Still, to have her minimize the possibility of someone else's suffering by keeping quiet until it was mostly assured everything was okay...god he missed her.

“Yeah...,” he breathed finally to assuage the look of discomfort on her face. Any questions he could've followed up with about what she had been up to while he was firmly entwined in yakuza bullshit were answered already, and Majima was too entranced to come up with any other questions on the spot. Makoto watched with a smile on her face and a faint sense of relief as Majima squatted down to their daughter's height, eye still wide.

“Name, name,” he said after a while, glancing up at Makoto, “She got a name, don't she? How old? Wh—,”

Makoto's laugh cut him off before he asked too much at once, then answered gently, “Her name is Akiko, she's about to turn two soon. Figured it was time she met her father,”

She bent down and rubbed the edge of Akiko's ear to get her attention then gestured towards Majima, “See? That's your Daddy, right there,”

The expression on the girl's face didn't change much, but the corner of his mouth lifted in an awed smile. On instinct he didn't think he had he lifted a hand to greet the kid, holding it out for her first if she wanted to shake or touch it. She did not move. Barely registering this anyways, Majima raised it to pat her head. His fingers barely brushed the top of her hair and Akiko snarled and let out a sharp bark.

“NO!”

Majima jerked his hand away, dropping his mouth slightly as he stuttered for a second, “A-Ah! Sorry!”

He looked to Makoto to see if he had crossed some unknown boundary, but she was smiling in response to all of it, warm and gentle. Patting the side of Akiko's head, she gazed down at her.

“It's her favorite word,”

“Oh? Good,” Majima said, genuine. Makoto looked at him and he gave her a knowing smirk, rocking on his heels and refusing to stand back up now that he was down to his daughter's height, “Does she know any other words?”

“Theoretically,”

Majima laughed in a way he hadn't in a very long time—not a sharp shrieking wail but something from the gut that passed through the chest in a way that felt like he was loosening, blooming in a sense. Without asking for him to stand up, Makoto knelt down, wrapping her arms around him and holding him close and tight. With it, all the words she couldn't say whether by emotion or by Akiko's presence. Majima exhaled, warming the nape of her neck as he returned the gesture, grateful that she missed him, grateful that she felt similarly, grateful that, despite all of it, she kept their daughter as safe as possible. Until Akiko had learned the word NO and carried the voice to scream it. He chuckled into Makoto's hair, watching his daughter stare at them in the most betrayed, judgmental way he had ever seen.

“She's beautiful, Makoto,” he murmured into her ear. He felt her cheeks raise against him as she answered.

“I knew you'd adore her,”

Akiko did not look pleased. She still did not look pleased when they broke apart, seating themselves on the park bench Majima had been waiting on, and she still did not look pleased when she made the executive decision to sit on one of Majima's thighs. Facing her mother, her sour expression went from her, to Majima, back to her, a bitter backdrop as the two of them caught up. Though he was listening, Makoto noted that he could not (or would not) tear his gaze off of Akiko. The more he stared the more it seemed his eye puffed up and he sniffed more often than he should've despite the clean and calm atmosphere of the park. He raised a hand to support Akiko's back but, again, she yelled NO and with a grin that came so easily to him even though he had barely known her he apologized and retreated again. Makoto's heart swelled, watching as tears gathered in his eye. Nothing bad, or sad, just pure emotion as his daughter glared at him despite choosing to sit in his lap.

She leaned forward, pressing her soft lips against his cheek, kissing the tears in a way he had done for her before Akiko had been born. Majima leaned into her touch, watching how Akiko's expression changed only slightly, betraying her hidden curiosity.

“Have you eaten?” Makoto muttered, “Akiko has, I haven't,”

“No,” Majima answered, prompting Makoto to retreat ever so slightly. A takoyaki cart stood at the entrance to the park—one of the reasons she had chosen this place to meet him. With another brush of her lips against his wet cheek she left the two to get to know each other, knowing she had made the right choice when Akiko didn't cry or scream when she left. The takoyaki stand took a bit longer than she expected, but it was for the benefit of a fresh, hot batch, and she didn't mind waiting.

When she returned, though, she found Majima with his face buried in his hands, shoulders shaking. Her light expression tightened with worry. He wasn't just crying but bawling, stifling the noise as best he could. She opened her mouth to ask but, when her gaze lowered, she noticed that Akiko had, despite everything, sprawled her limbs out and had fallen firmly asleep against her father.

Makoto sat, deciding it best not to say anything at all, and drew Majima out long enough to enjoy the takoyaki with her as their daughter slept.

Chapter Text

Kaida frowned at the paper, graded in green pen with a near-perfect score. The few points lost wasn't what was bothering her, it was her pencil scratches at the top of the paper; her own handwriting spelling out her kanji name in all its...unfortunate glory. Her mother was finishing up in the kitchen, putting the last of what she needed in the broth to simmer. It didn't take long before she wandered out to sit with her daughter for a while, standing in the archway to the kitchen and noticing her small but deep frown.

“What's the matter?”

Kaida lifted her head, not even attempting to put a mask on, “Mom, why did Dad name me like this?”

“Hm?” Makoto stepped out of her slippers and knelt down in front of the table, “What do you mean?”

“It's just...Little dragon? Nobody is named this, not the other girls,”

“True,” Makoto hummed, “But there's no permanent harm from a unique name, is there?”

“But...,” she protested, “Why,”

“Well,” Makoto hummed again, choosing her words carefully, “We figured it'd be suitable for what we hoped,”

“Wasn't it Dad's idea?” she grumbled, and while Makoto gave her the benefit of the truth in that one she gently reminded that the name had to pass by her as well. Kaida sighed, frustrated, then went back to looking at her paper. Sensing that there was more to this than just simple frustration over a name, Makoto got up and moved to Kaida's side of the table, facing away from it as she sat down.

“What's on your mind?”

“Nothing,” she grumbled. Makoto sighed quietly, not moving. Kaida kept her thoughts to herself for a long while. It was quite the opposite and the both of them knew it.

It wasn't like Kaida was unaware that her family was...less than conventional, but it seemed in the past few weeks with her twelfth birthday swiftly approaching that everything was starting to nag at her from the back of her mind. Her father, some crazed yakuza with one eye and a penchant for bared skin and brawls, seemed to come and go as he pleased—never consistent, never always there. He was of course, there for the important things, but even that started to become sullied in her mind past the naïve enthusiasm she had held before. It was recent that she realized that at school events and performances her mother always chose seats in the far back if she knew he was coming, always putting her purse down in an empty seat to save one for him. Sometimes he'd show up in the nick of time, sometimes he was even early. But then there were times where he'd stumble in late, face hastily washed and moving like he had boards of wood keeping his legs separated. As soon as he'd crash into his seat her mother would lean over and brush something off with her thumb—blood that had reappeared in the time between washing his face and appearing at the event. Why her mother never seemed perturbed started to infuriate her, especially when he was sitting in the sea of other kids' fathers and so glaringly not what they were.

The last weekend he had visited he stumbled in much the same way and Kaida at first wondered if he was drunk as he slid his hand over her hair, messing it up, before crashing on the far side of the table. Her mother had said nothing, simply sat down next to his head as they murmured sweet things to each other she was now having a hard time believing. He had passed out soon after and her mother spent the entire meal with one hand buried in his hair, smoothing and combing it out. Kaida had craned her neck to see bruises on his face. She didn't understand why he fell asleep with a smile on.

Of course she understood what he was. She still had stark memories of when she was much younger; her mother had to go in for complications that resulted in a hysterectomy, a word that she was simultaneously proud and ashamed for knowing. That meant that Kaida had to be sent under her father's care. He had tried to keep her at home as much as possible, but there were some days that he had to bring her into the grimy district of Kamurocho, where she saw languishing homeless and drug addicts alike. Then that led to her walking in on what was most certainly something that scarred her—her father beating the ever-loving-shit out of some man as he heard him screech in a voice she didn't recognize. As soon as he realized she was there the beating was passed off to one of his goons and he scooped her up and away. The grim silence he held might've been angry, but he never said a harsh word to her. Now Kaida was wondering if that was almost worse.

“I just...,” she finally broke the silence, “I just don't get it.”

“Your name?” Makoto asked.

“Everything,” Kaida crumpled the edges of the paper in her hands, “He only comes around when he wants, you don't question it, you love him for it, and he's nice when he's here, but other places...,”

Makoto watched her daughter steadily, not interrupted even as she saw the tears of frustration bead at the corners of her eyes.

“So what does he mean by little dragon? What does he want me to be? Does he want me to be like him? No one we know is like him, and he isn't changing, he's not staying around the house any more than he used to, and he's not...he's not...,”

Studying her daughter for a very long time, Makoto sighed, then looked up to where the only photograph she had of Lee rested near his certifications for being a massage therapist. Kaida shook her head, getting one last sentence in.

“I don't get why you let him. I don't get why you love him,”

At that Makoto couldn't help but smile. Well. It was blunt, but she was so obviously her father's daughter. Her longer face, fingers, limbs—her cheeks and nose may have still been button-like like hers, but Majima's blood absolutely ran through her veins. The smile turned to a small frown as she continued to stare. She had, just a few weeks ago, already given Kaida the talk about her body, seeing as Majima commented that she looked just like he did before he shot up to his current height within the course of a year. Jokes about guessing what her height would be aside, he must've not been wrong, because Kaida was speaking about things Makoto knew she'd have to confront at some point. She was almost twelve. She couldn't know everything, but all the same she deserved some peace.

“I never told you about how your father and I met,” she started carefully. Kaida scrunched herself closed and glowered.

“Yes you did. Dad was a cabaret manager and you were his massage therapist and then you fell in love,”

“You remember that I was blind back then?”

“Yes. Dad has that awful joke about love at first sight, remember?”

Makoto barely smirked, but her voice darkened with a softness that only came out at the right moments, “Kaida. Your father was hired to kill me.”

Kaida's head shot up, her eyes wide. No smart retorts, no questions, no nothing—just sheer, utter shock from something that, pardoning the expression, hit her from her blindside.

“Long before that,” Makoto folded her hands together to keep them from fidgeting, “I was...Captured. Captured and used. Lee-san, though not your grandfather by blood, he was the one who took me in. Taught me how to be a massage therapist. Not too long later...your father came into our clinic. He had been told to kill me.”

Kaida was silent. Makoto stared at her, soft but firm, which only hammered in how serious she was.

“I was blind. They—your father and grandfather—tried to protect me. I lost Lee-san. I lost my brother. I lost...everything.”

She swallowed then looked away, not able to look at her daughter as she relayed what she could, “There are...times. Things that happen, that make you have to make a choice. And there are only two options. We named you what we did because, should that time come, maybe you will already have the strength to make the stronger, harder choice. Like he did. Like I did. But...,”

Makoto looked at the darkening skies outside of the front door as early evening settled in.

“I think, more than anything, we named you that in the hopes that you would never have to make that choice.”

Kaida remained silent, eyes wide in horror and awe. Trying to alleviate some of it, Makoto smiled warmly then reached over to tuck loose strands of her daughter's hair behind her ear, smoothing it back to the band of her ponytail. Letting the silence speak for her, she got to her feet and stepped back into her slippers, finding her way back to the kitchen to tend to the sukiyaki. Kaida looked back to the name scratched on her paper, barely realizing she was trembling.

She knew there was much she didn't know, but she didn't realize just what she couldn't have known.

The lock unlatched with a familiar sound and from the kitchen Makoto heard her daughter spring up, scream 'Daddy!' like she hadn't done in a few years, and crash into her father at the door. Majima shouted in surprise, soon followed with tired but genuine laughter. When Makoto brought the pot of sukiyaki out to the table Majima was looming over it with Kaida latched onto his back, face buried in the back of his neck.

She smiled at him. He caught on to the depth and smiled back.

Chapter Text

Makoto huffed, drawing her light blouse around her to the damp but comforting spring chill. The sun was shining proudly after being hidden for so long, beating warm against everything else. Warm, happy, bright, all the things that Makoto was not.

At least, not at this moment.

All of Tateyama's attempts as of late had become...pushy, to the point where she couldn't tell if it was arrogance or desperation. Both were equally bad, but not knowing what was in his head meant she didn't know how to combat it. She wouldn't accept it if she didn't know, and she can't let someone down gently without catching them in the first place.

So, in this case, she excused herself from the table, the cafe, the date in general. Maybe it was a bit blunt, or bold, but despite the fact that Tateyama should have known, or guessed, that if she had been psychogenically blind that there might have been something to that that would wind up in her uncomfortable about the topic of having children and raising a family. Especially when they had been dating for what—no, wait. She wouldn't call it dating. A couple of dates was not dating. There was a stark difference, and Makoto was about to draw the line in the sand behind her and not look back.

But don't you think we ought to be together? But what if...people want us to be together? But I want to be together, won't you give it a try?

Her eyes squeezed shut, which didn't deter her pace any. But I love you! Too far, too fast, too strong. Again, she was unable to tell if it was arrogance or desperation. At this point it didn't matter. She needed to breathe, away from him, because recently it seemed the only thing she was seeing was him. That's not what she regained her eyesight for.

She had to admit, she almost went for it. Almost. Something was holding her back, but that something almost wasn't strong enough. She had lost everything within the course of a few, bitter days. If she was being kind to herself, of course she wanted to be with someone. Anyone. Even Tateyama. But for a moment that cloud of wants cleared for just a moment, chased away by the springtime sun and she realized her gut had been twisted since Tateyama started taking her on dates. Walk. And keep walking until the gut untwisted.

Kamurocho. Her feet took her to Kamurocho. To be more precise, they took her past the homeless village and then into Kamurocho. Strange that this is what her eyes wanted to see more than the face of her date. Glaring neon that battled the sun advertising girls, girls, girls surrounded the less-than-savory types populating the streets. It hadn't been two weeks ago now that she and her surgeon had been accosted in broad daylight, right here in this district. Now Makoto was alone, it was around the same time of day—all the same she didn't care.

She wandered. Part of her almost wanted to shop just to have something to do—god knows she had the money to spare now at the very least. But ultimately she just...wandered. Makoto found herself retracing steps she had taken a few months before, half-blind at night. Past the thundering roar of pachinko parlors, past the storefront criers, the advertising jingles, past all of that. Her eyes took it in with the sounds, mesmerized like it was meditative. Had it been later in the day she knew that the streets would fill with so many more bodies and sounds, music, voices.

It shocked her, then, that passing by the small karaoke bar that she heard music. It was spring, the door was open—but that someone was inside and singing, and what sounded like singing alone, that made her pause first. It would've been fairly to easy to keep walking despite the anomaly, but the voice drew her in until she was standing just to the side of the door, listening.

The voice was thick in multiple ways. Thick, because it clearly held an accent she hadn't heard since December. Thick, like he was singing past something in his throat. Thick, because occasionally his voice cracked against his will. Thick to her ears because it sounded familiar.

He cut his own line off with a choke and a grunt of frustration, barely managing to crawl back before the next line started. The man was crying but kept singing anyways. Makoto, unnerved by how familiar the voice sounded, tried to focus on the lyrics.

The days we cannot meet, separated far apart

We'll wish upon a star and meet in our dreams...

The song was happy, but the lyrics felt like she had swallowed ice cubes whole. Maybe it was the voice to go with it. She pressed her hands flat against the building with her body, trying to control her breathing as somehow the man finished the song and the music died out and nothing came from the karaoke bar. It seemed like she had almost dreamt it, some bizarre happenstance of a man with a familiar voice crying his way through a karaoke song in the middle of the day. Didn't even sound like he was drunk, either. Then again, it was possible to reach a point of sadness where it felt like being in a drunken stupor, alcohol or no.

A shadow moved in the reflection of the open door and she sucked in a breath, tensing. A man stepped out—quite possibly the one who had been singing. She'd like to think so, because Kamurocho didn't really attract noontime karaoke singers in the middle of the week. Then again, he looked like someone who could force a business to open if he wanted to use it. Makoto shrank to flatten herself against the building, stabbed with fear and intrigue all at once.

The man with the sad eye.

His blindside was facing her, but he took a little pause to gather himself and light a cigarette in front of the establishment. As if she needed to stare more to assure herself. Makoto tried to crane her neck, taking advantage of his blindness to try and peek into the bar to see if he had been the only one in there. There was no way she was able to see far enough, and she flinched when he sniffed and turned to leave. Fortunately for her, unfortunately for him, he put his back to her. If it was him singing, and if he did have that voice that was so familiar, with the sad eye, where the other one was most likely destroyed...

Makoto didn't even need a second to gather her courage as she began to tail him. Not so far away that it was unnoticeable, but not so close that she was chasing him. Her eyes were suddenly bright and focused, watching the snakeskin gleam on his shoulders. If she could just catch him at a store, or maybe running into someone he knew, just something so she could hear his normal talking voice, just to see, because now the suspicions were stacked up so far she couldn't pretend to ignore them like she had been before.

It wasn't long before he started making some odd turns. Meandering, aimless, but his head was held high like he understood what he was doing. He didn't slow in front of storefronts to browse nor did he give the criers any bait to bite at. Yet he did not seem to have a destination, much as he pretended to. At first Makoto was confused, but the second she realized what he was doing was the second he turned on his heel, snatched her wrist, and pulled her into a grim, abandoned alley.

His lips were curled, baring his long teeth like a snarling dog. The remnants of the cigarette he had tossed somewhere along the way blew into her face and her nose scrunched as her eyes moved from his mouth to his eye. It was wide, wild, almost akin to when he had slammed his fists into the would-be assaulters. The shock on her face did not last long—shock did not equate to fear—and her eyes darkened, meeting his eye without torment or issue. Of course the possibility had crossed her mind that she could be making a mistake, but even if he wasn't the man she hoped he was he was at least someone that had saved her in the not-too distant past. Then again, there was a place for the unpredictable in the underbelly of the city. Makoto curled her fingers into fists, nails biting into the flesh of her palms.

At the same time her expression changed his did too. Bared teeth fell into a startled frown as his eye blinked several times, wide for a moment before it fell into that same sort of resigned sorrow she had seen before. The only that didn't change was the firm grip he had on her wrist. She knew he wouldn't open his mouth to lecture her, even though he looked like he wanted to tell her off, get rid of her, something akin to that.

“Well?” she huffed, challenging him, “Are you going to say something or let me go?”

His lip curled again but in a different, much more painful manner before he struggled to regain himself and put on a more frightening face. At this point she knew it was a mask and she pushed away from the alley wall he had shoved her against to assert herself into his space.

Her watch went off.

The melody was muffled in his hand. Makoto would've thought nothing of it other than a simple distraction had he not jerked in shock and horror, slipping his hand until he was barely holding her wrist with his suddenly frightened and dainty fingers. Like she was poison.

With her instincts flaring and raging she was about to start hounding him until she was free, but. But. Each passing second of the melody brought more and more fear on his face until, if it weren't for the fact that he was standing over her, she could almost call it cowering. Makoto blinked. She had found the watch buried in the Empty Lot, not that far away from the alley they were in now. No one alive except for her recognized the melody—no one except, perhaps, the person who had buried it in the first place. The sad-eyed man's reaction was that of someone who didn't expect to hear that melody ever again.

Curious, Makoto lifted her wrist. He let it slip between his fingers. Before he could jerk his hand back in a retreat she caught it within hers, stopping him. If there was ever a face that could express panic perfectly, his was it. The calmer she became the worse it seemed for him. Makoto breathed, staring at his eye, studying.

Relief washed through her.

“I knew it...,” she breathed. A spasm went through him like he was both elated and horrified. Makoto smiled, “Thief...,”

Confusion struck his face, staying until the memory flooded back and he winced. He shook his head, more than necessary, jamming a few fingers into his one good eye. Sniffing, trying to bury it, he righted himself, straightened his back, and though he was now gazing at her in adoration he was thoroughly seeped with sorrow. His voice—now that she finally, finally heard it, was soft, regretful, dark—like so many times it had been before.

“This ain't yer world...,” he protested. Makoto didn't break his gaze.

“Nothing is,” she answered.

His shoulders relaxed as he gazed at her longer and longer. Several times he had opened his mouth to say something but nothing came out.

“I don't need to know your name,” Makoto tried to comfort him, “I don't. So long as, as you know...,”

He swallowed hard, becoming stiff as her hands traveled up to slide along his long face, fingers curling around his ears to pull him closer to her height.

“I don't want you to be sad,” she whispered to him, “I just want you to know. I don't want you to be sad,”

“Then I won't be,” he answered, blunt. Makoto smiled wryly, pushing her nose against him to tell him she couldn't take that as an answer. Too many loopholes.

Then it came. Not his name but hers, spilling out his lips so much she was in awe he didn't stutter or stumble over them. Then he started to whisper it in between kisses that she initiated, against her lips, forehead, the bridge of her nose, cheeks, neck—to which she emitted an ever so slightly embarrassing squeak that made her face turn red and his eyebrows raise.

“I-It's chilly out,” she panted as an excuse, “Do you...know any place, ah...warmer?”

A hard kiss to her temple and he took her hand in his, squeezing it for security as much as for comfort. She followed his hand as she had before, happy, at peace, and excited all in one.

Chapter Text

Majima stared, wide-eyed as the girl curled up tighter on the dusty couch. He was torn between whether he should've known or if this was something that anyone would consider out of left field. They had been chatting almost like they were friends, even though he was still in the limbo of deciding whether or not to kill her in the next two days. After the takoyaki was gone he had kept his distance and directed her as to where sauce had spilled, had some shockingly deep bonding moments following some jokes, and now she was cowering again. In fear—in total and utter fear—of him.

He couldn't blame her, though.

He didn't know her hand would brush against one of his horns instead of smooth forehead, he didn't know she'd be able to see—rather feel—what he really was. But there was no going back now. Makoto's hands, in a desperate attempt to believe she had misunderstood, brushed over the angry creases of his face, pricked themselves on his tusks, nearly dipped into the darkness that should've been his left eye. Briefly he wondered if she'd be able to see him for what he was if she wasn't blind—usually nobody was able to tell that he was anything but a lanky, dangerous sort of man. Unless it was a woman irrevocably possessed with jealousy—he remembered once before he lost his eye that he took a late train to a nameless place and one of the businesswomen on the train started throwing a fit and screaming at the sight of him. She had been taken away for a mental breakdown. At the time he couldn't help but gloat in it a little, letting his thick, ropey tongue drop to the floor of the train and slither towards her. When her eyes followed it up to his fanged maw she had let out a scream he probably regretted but it had been fun all the same.

Right here and now, though, he felt his chest flutter in panic. He hadn't meant to frighten her, and after hearing what Lee had to say about what she had been through, he could only imagine the horrors that were running through her mind now. There was no need to console her and tell her that monsters were, actually, real—she knew that shit already, and now she was blind, alone in a dusty warehouse, and face to face with one.

He craned his neck, extending it like it was a snake until his demon-esque face hovered over her. Long strands of the hair that covered him from head to end draped down.

“Hey,” he tried, noticing that his voice coming from up above her probably wasn't the best idea, “Yanno, if I had wanted to eat ya, woulda done it already. No hesitation. Fer real,”

Actually, lots of hesitation, because he was sure beings like him didn't really consume people since feudal or even ancient times—it was the really, really old ones they had to watch out for, but they were dwindling and becoming few and far between.

Majima let his tongue fall between his tusks, carefully prodding at her head. She flinched at the sticky warmth but did nothing to fight against it. His mind rushed for a way he could regain the trust he had lost just moments ago—hell, the place still smelled of fresh takoyaki. Prodding at her again, he accidentally jammed his tongue against the cup of her ear and she screamed in disgust. Oof. He withdrew immediately.

“See?” he smiled as sweet as he could and prayed it came through in his voice, “Ya taste like garbage—oh, shit, I mean,”

He looked at her. She had stopped trembling but he couldn't tell if that was bad or not.

“Uh,” he propped himself on his haunches and rested his hands on either side of her, tapping his fingers in a wave as he pulled his tongue up to scratch his head, “Hm.”

It was quiet save for his breathing—he could only tell she was breathing too by the irregular and shallow motion of her shoulder. Finally he had an idea, a shitty one but an idea nonetheless and he brought his tongue back into his mouth.

“Hey, you wanna know what I look like?”

Honestly it was a question for a child—someone between the ages of six to ten who still had some sort of gross, awed wonder at things and who still believed in magic. He didn't mean to belittle Makoto by asking the question, but all the same, if he could show that he had gentleness suited for a child maybe she'd give way.

Sure enough, she twitched, bringing her head up out of the cocoon of her jacket. He grinned, thankful she couldn't see the gleaming display of yellowed fangs and tusks set against blazing red gums.

“It ain't so bad once you get used to it,” his voice gained some energy as he started to describe himself. The more he said, attaching ridiculous stories to each, the more she unwound. Got my neck stuck in a tree once, so I stretched it out until I could tap on a window to get someone to come help me. Poked some poor dude on a crowded train with my horns but he didn't know what was going on, he thought a bird had pecked him. In the train! Once a kid could see who I was so I laid on my back and the kid scratched my belly and my dog legs started kicking. Yanno, technically I'm a quadroped, but I got human hands, see?

“See?” Majima gently lifted his hands in front of her, palms out. Makoto sensed their presence, hesitating as her hands emerged from the folds of her jacket. Majima watched in awe, they shook a little bit but sooner rather than later they stilled with a sort of courage he wasn't aware she had. It brimmed from her soft finger pads as they touched the hearts of his palms, spreading out until they tried to reach the edges of his long fingers. No such luck, his hands were just a touch too large to be natural, but he curled the tips of his fingers to hold hers weakly.

“Told ya it ain't that ba—,”

Freezing and nearly choking on the length of his tongue, Majima found himself almost shivering as without prompting her hands left his and touched his face. Just one at first, against his nose and following its line down to his split lips. The other soon cupped his bony, protruding cheek, and from there she explored the rest of his face. Ugly curves, stretched muscles, hardened bone and horn, particularly his shocked brow that had twisted upwards. Her thumb circled the hole in his face, somehow refraining from poking into it. When she was done she parted the long strands of hair from his face, tucking them behind his horns and leathery ears.

“You told me you were handsome,” she muttered.

“U-Uh, w-well, I mean, uh,” he stammered as her eyelids drooped.

“To someone, you must be.”

Majima stared.

Makoto swayed then fainted, about to fall off the chair were it not for his hands catching her. With the help of his tongue, he tucked her back into the couch, pulling the collar of her jacket up for comfort and brushing hair away from her cheeks. When he realized what he was doing he retreated, dog feet and hands alike scraping along the broken tile as his neck shortened back up.

Two days. He had two days to kill her.

But she had just, in a sense, called him handsome.

Chapter Text

Majima twitched as the door to the apartment opened and closed. Expecting him to still be asleep, Makoto did not announce her arrival, simply slipping out of her shoes (slightly tripping, as he heard) before sliding her socked feet over the floor. He opened his eye, squinting at the sunlight poking through the shades. Eyelids almost glued together by sheer sleep alone, he lazily turned his gaze down to where the clock was next to the bed. It was turned the opposite direction. Scoffing lightly, he threw a deadened arm out to attempt to turn it to face the proper way. Cusses and curses filled his head at the inconvenience, but he knew damn well what had turned the clock the other way, and he knew damned well it was his fault—he felt himself do it at around 2:37AM, when he had come crashing home and woke Makoto unceremoniously then kept her awake. By means that probably woke the neighbors unceremoniously, too.

Noon, or thereabouts. Majima sighed with a rumble. At least it was about what he expected.

The door to the bedroom slid open and Makoto slipped in. Majima grunted a greeting, too sleepy to make it sound upbeat but also too sleepy to really sound grumpy. Makoto hummed lightly, turning papers in her hand.

“Well, the ward office finally agreed,” she murmured gently, “They'll finalize the marriage, so long as we have proper witnesses to the signing,”

“Fuck's sake,” Majima grumbled into his pillow, “S'bout fuckin' time, haven't they married some orphans before?”

Family register this, family register that, Majima's clan didn't count as family, he had no real family left, there was too much concern over Makoto's lineage, then on top of that she couldn't list Lee as her father since she couldn't remember her real father's name—and finally, she had gone missing and blurred the lines, somehow. God forbid Majima let his mouth slip and say it was a Korean mafia that had held her for a while, the ward office would've imploded. Marrying orphans was the least of the problems, but it got the point across. Makoto smiled wryly and placed a hand on his naked bicep, squeezing it lovingly.

“So,” Majima continued, “How many goddamn papers do they want us to go through?”

“Don't worry about it,” Makoto assured, “I finally got through to someone who made it simple and straight,”

“I'm worryin' 'bout it,” Majima retorted, “We're gonna show up at their door with the whole damn Majima Family to witness and sign it until the certificate's bleedin' ink, I hope ya realize that,”

Makoto hid the loving grin from her voice, “So long as it's ink, not blood, Majima-san,”

Majima choked on a pained laugh at the formal use of his surname—soon to be hers as well, “Six o' one, half-dozen of the other,”

Makoto pinched into his muscles and he yelped, sparked out of his sleepiness. His hand went up to ruefully rub the place she had pinched.

“Hey, if ya weren't expectin' that response, take those papers straight back, lady,”

She smiled and leaned down, kissing his cheek until the corner of his mouth met her in his own smile. Moving to kiss the crest of his ear she whispered, “I guess it's six of one, half-dozen of the other whether I do or don't, I'm staying either way,”

Majima turned his head to kiss her as properly as he could with as minimal effort as possible, grinning ear to ear at her response. They had been so close to just saying fuck it to the formality of marriage, wouldn't make too much of a difference either way. But if something happened to one of them—particularly, Majima—then the law would definitely be on their side to make sure Makoto got the best she could from it should it ever happen. It might've been gruesome to think and plan for, but better to have a security net then just to leave it to the wolves, again. He broke away from the kiss and snuggled back up, facing away from her with the dreamy grin still on his face. Makoto sat, legs curled comfortably on top of the blanked Majima was under, watching him breathe and enjoy his waking moments.

After a while he turned back again, asking something she didn't catch, too lost in her thoughts.

“Ceremony?”

“Ah...,” Makoto trailed off, “I. Still don't know,”

“Y'know me,” he comforted, resting his head again, “I could go all out, or I could homebody it if it's what ya want,” What he meant was that a big ceremony could've screamed to the world that she was under his protection and that harming her could provoke his wrath, but it also could've painted a bigass target on her. Plus, having a ceremony to boast their love seemed contrived and boisterous, even to him.

To her, she had nobody to be there to be proud of her, pat her hand and tell stories, no one to accept her decision with joy. No parents, no remaining family, no Lee, no big brother. Everyone she would suggest—Sera, Kiryu—they were all people whom Majima could've also invited. No one personal to just her. Majima might've been considered to be in the same boat, but he had lost and separated from his family long ago, and it much less brutally unfair ways. Having a ceremony brought this issue into the light for everyone to see as well as putting him in the suspicious position of what he must've done to rope her into the marriage in the first place.

“Can be as small as ya want,” Majima offered, “Me, you, a priest, Nishida's gotta be there to cry like a baby, and like—whoever,”

“Sera would show up,” Makoto mused.

“Him and some security insurance,” Majima snorted.

“What about Kiryu-san?”

Majima's eye shot open, focused and fierce.

“Ya do that, we're throwin' down and it won't just be the marriage certificate soaked in blood,”

“Kiryu would love to be there,” Makoto said, meeting Majima's eye as it rolled back to her without him moving his head.

“Would love to have 'im,” Majima sounded impishly greedy, “Been wantin' to fight that piece of meat ever since he gutted the Shibusawa family, shit,”

“Guess it wouldn't be your wedding if it didn't have something like that somewhere,” she mused further, tilting her head and letting her short hair fall past her shoulder as she did so. Majima barked in sharp laughter.

“Ya got the idea in my head, if we do this and ya don't invite him I will,”

“I'll invite him,” Makoto insisted, “He was sweet to me, told me first-hand accounts of my brother, he—,”

Majima quieted, watching her gaze shoot off into darker places. He knew how those sentences ended—Kiryu loved her brother, Kiryu, if only momentarily, took up the role of her brother in his place. Kiryu did everything he could to save him, Kiryu was there while she cried. Majima raised a hand and brushed the back of his knuckles across her cheek, gentle and knowing.

“Jianliang will be there. Here, too. Anywhere,” he assured, butchering her brother's name. Still, she smiled with a depth that drowned his heart in, forever touched that he cared to remember his name in the first place, “And if Kiryu-chan reminds ya of him, I'll pull my punches. Just a little bit,”

Pretending tears weren't brimming, Makoto gave a hoarse laugh, “Do you think Kiryu would pull punches?”

Another, quieter bark of laughter from him and then his arms wrapped around her waist and pulled her down.

“I love ya.”

Makoto pressed her face into Majima's side, her laughs tickling his skin as her hands wrapped around him in turn, wandering over his warmth and dipping beneath the blanket, knowing he was still naked from the night before. Sighing into her skin, Majima relaxed against her, eye fluttering as her hand slipped to the back of his thigh and pulled his leg up to better embrace her with his whole body. Lazy but comfortable, they breathed deep against each other as the clock's numbers ticked on, facing them without judgment.

Suddenly Makoto moved with a small, pained hum. Majima brushed his thumb along her side, quick to respond.

“Shimano,” she said.

Majima froze, then returned her hum with something equally pained and ten times lower.

“Ah,” he grunted, “Nix the ceremony, then,”

Makoto sighed, though not exactly relaxed anymore. He kissed her arm, moving to her shoulder until he could wedge his nose against the base of her neck.

“Just fer now, though,” he promised.

Makoto closed her eyes, giving the back of his thigh a grateful squeeze.

Chapter Text

The next thing Saejima knew was that his face was flat against the kotatsu, Majima's fingers digging into his scalp.

“Bite yer tongue before I bite it off fer ya, kyoudai,” Majima growled in a way Saejima had never heard before—stark, intense, and infuriated, “She cooked dinner, she's sharin' her dinner with us, and she's gonna sit and enjoy her dinner wherever the fuck she wants,”

Struggling uselessly against his hold, Saejima tried to twist until he could look up at the woman sitting at the head of the table. The head of the table. The steam from the sukiyaki pot she had brought out for such an occasion cloaked her face ever so slightly. She was watching him with eyes that were half-lidded, not with exhaustion or pomposity but some sort of hard darkness that hadn't been on her face when they had invited him inside.

Sure it had felt good to see Majima again. But still his kyoudai—former kyoudai or whatever—had given no real explanation as to why he had never shown up twenty-five years ago. Fuck, he didn't even offer to throw down with him before this, giving some shit 'can't brawl on an empty stomach' excuse. Majima's seemed nonchalance about the whole thing just made Saejima pissy, and then he brings him to some homey apartment to some sweet woman cooking sukiyaki like it's nothing more than a family reunion? Just a couple of old friends catching up? Was Majima daft?

Saejima watched the woman move in the kitchen like a hawk, becoming angrier as time went on at her cheer and innocence. If things were going to turn ugly between him and Majima again, this woman shouldn't be here. That was all Saejima had suggested; although he had done it in a rather crass way, speaking directly to the woman and asking her to leave.

It earned him his current position. Majima slowly released his hand, glaring at Saejima as he righted himself. What the hell? Maybe daft wasn't the right word to describe him, because crazy seemed to fit the bill more.

“I meant it as a courtesy,” Saejima spoke lowly as if the woman couldn't hear him, “With what I need to...hear, from you, I don't think it'd be right for her,”

“She ain't some fourteen-year-old ya can order to go grab some beer,” Majima shot, “Speaking of—,”

Saejima slammed his hands against the kotatsu and ground his teeth, bellowing since Majima was more stubborn than he was, “There were eighteen men, not ten, and I killed them all alone—,”

“Oh come off it!” Majima snapped, waving his hand dismissively, “Ya ain't the only one to take a life so quit yer fuckin' whinin', ya agreed to it just like I did!”

“You're not one to talk,” Saejima snarled, “You never showed, there's no blood on your hands,”

“Yeah?” Majima was seething, “Not their blood, I'll give ya that, but ya really believe twenty-five years went by and I never did nothin'?”

“I wonder who you killed, and why,” Saejima narrowed his eyes, “You never paid time, you don't seem any worse for wear, only a monster does so much and feels nothin'. Sasai's gone, Shimano's gone, and you're just sittin' pretty and playin' innocent, huh?

“This the kinda talk you wanted in front of your girl, Majima?” Saejima spat, spurred by Majima's sudden stillness, “You put her in a room with two murderers, but at least I'm not a traitor—,”

“Kuze. Awano. Shibusawa,” the woman spoke, calm, cool, dark. Saejima blinked then turned his head to see that her eyes had been trained on him the whole time, “Lieutenants of the Dojima family. Dojima Sohei, rising to power in Sasai's absence,”

“H...How,” Saejima breathed to Majima, “How does she know those names?”

“I wonder,” she continued as if there was no interruption, “If the bureaucrats had known, that night in Roppongi...I wonder if my price for the land Dojima coveted would've been paid. The heads of his lieutenants, severed from their bodies to be laid in front of me,”

Saejima felt himself turn to cold, weak stone at the woman's words. They were enunciated too clearly to be memorized like a graduation speech, she had chosen words that felt too strong to be accidental. He wanted to look at Majima to ask where...where had this woman come from and what had built her, but he felt enraptured by her dark gaze. Where he felt regret for the eighteen lives he had taken, she felt regret in not being able to take three. It chilled him until the marrow in his bones felt hollow and rotting.

“I wouldn't have been able to see them, not clear enough...No, I don't think it'd ever be clear enough for me. But I did see them in my mind. Perhaps Dojima could too. In the end, I got a bullet in my side instead. Still, I wonder if he would've done it. I wonder if, somewhere out there, there might have been a way to get what I wanted. What would it have changed?”

The woman's gaze finally dropped to the simmering pot of sukiyaki, “I suppose I will never know.”

Saejima's heart pounded in his ears, barely registering as fear as his eyes darted from her face to the sukiyaki to her hands, folded demurely in her lap. Finally they came back to Majima, who was regarding Saejima with a low sort of knowing gaze. A gaze like a father who had just seen their kid truly understand a lesson he had been trying to get across. Majima ducked his head and lit a cigarette at the dinner table. The woman didn't make any signs of disgust, simply allowing him to smoke before he reached and started piling food into his bowl. She gestured for Saejima to do so next, and he did reluctantly, eyes still unsure of where to look. The woman finally served herself.

Majima shoveled food into his mouth, smoking in between swallows. It was the only indication that he was stressed through the roof.

“Ya wanna compare body count tallies, be my guest, bro,” Majima murmured disappointedly, “But if ya wanna do that, then there's somethin' ya outta know,”

Saejima perked his chin, but Majima suddenly wouldn't look at him. The woman, whom in the midst of idle conversation he had learned was named Makoto, set her chopsticks down.

“Your sister. Yasuko,”

“Yasuko...,” Saejima breathed, suddenly realizing with the dropping of his heart that he hadn't even thought to check up on her since breaking out; so bent on answers and revenge on his absent kyoudai. That he still hadn't brought his own sister up must've led into Majima's agitation. Makoto's eyes were on him again and he felt spooked.

“She's left a trail of bodies behind her. Murders. Assassinations. One after the other, probably at the orders of someone else.”

The sukiyaki turned to ash and the ground beneath him sucked whatever he had out of him, leaving a shell in his place.

Majima took a long, long drag of his cigarette, nearly choking, then leaned forward, “She's gone by aliases, latest one is Lily. But she's always one step ahead of us and I don't even think she knows it. We keep tryin' to catch up but we can't—and at this point, we can't trust anyone else to pursue her even if they answer to me directly.”

Saejima's eyes widened, realizing that the we Majima was referring to were the two sitting right in front of him and no one else. Suddenly he could see something like a spiderweb between Majima and Makoto, strung together in so many different places and so many different ways—nearly invisible but deceptively strong. Taken aback, it took all of his power to not hyperventilate as Majima continued.

“Here's hopin' that we can trust ya with yer own sister, huh,” he grumbled.

“But...why? What's goin' on?” Saejima uttered, barely recognizing his own voice.

“I got a hunch,” Majima snuffed the cigarette and piled more food into his half-eaten bowl, “That whatever she's doin', it's got to do with yer eighteen-count hit yer so wound up about,”

Saejima stared and Majima glanced up to meet his eyes.

“Maybe we'll both get answers as to what the fuck happened back then, huh?”

Makoto continued to watch him as he slumped, shoulders drooping, haunches losing their tension.

“Then,” Majima continued through a mouthful of food, “Then, we can play yer body count game. Once everyone's together,”

Silence. Saejima slowly picked up his bowl and started to eat as Majima packed away more and more food.

“Makoto-han,” Majima said so gently it started Saejima—and to use such a formal honorific for someone who seemed to be his wife, “Please eat...,”

Makoto finally blinked, taking her gaze off of Saejima for the first time to start to eat.

That was when he stared at his kyoudai in awe.

Chapter Text

Shit.

It really said a lot to how Majima felt because he had nothing but gibberish to say to the nurse that handed him his daughter wrapped in white fluff. The little thing was still scrunched up and pink, but her eyes were open and fixed on him. The expression he made should've been a smile but it was crooked and nervous. He swore, too, that in response his daughter's face was judging him for his failure to even make a simple expression that babies could do. Albeit he hadn't seen her smile yet, she had been out and about for what, an hour at most? Gotta give the kid a little bit more time than that to adjust to her surroundings.

Though it really comforted him to think that the kid was absolutely thinking what the fuck is wrong with you?

Though that comfort was ripped away back to anxiety when he corrected it to what the fuck is wrong with you, dad?

Makoto, exhausted, stirred next to him and he flicked his eye over.

“G'mornin', sunshine,” he greeted when he saw her eyes open just a smidge. Tired, she smiled into the hospital pillow. It had been a scary—actually, horrifying—birth for all of them, baby included. Not to say that most of Makoto's fears had come true, but they almost had, and Majima nearly had to remove himself from the room were it not for how hard she gripped his hand.

Makoto's voice was weak and concerned despite his casual greeting, “Everything...alright?”

“Yeah,” he answered, calmer than he expected to be, “Baby already thinks I'm a lunatic so she's gonna be a smart one when she learns how to talk back,”

Makoto smiled, her nose scrunching ever so slightly, “It'll be a while before that happens,”

“I'm raisin' half of her, she's gonna mouth off the moment she can babble,” Majima reminded. Makoto sank into her pillow and cussed quietly but sweetly. Wishing he could brush her hair away but his hands were full of baby, Majima gazed at her, loving but still filled with dark memories.

“I love ya, Makoto,” he murmured. She stirred and hummed, returning his words with the noise. He was just thankful, “Ya gonna pull through?”

She nodded against her pillow and Majima watched as she fell back into slumber.

The newborn gurgled in his arms and he diverted his attention to her, “Hm? Say that again?”

A face he could only interpret as intense concentration—rather, aghast pomposity. It didn't bother him that there was probably no way the baby could have capacity to feel on such a complex level. The baby—his daughter—scrunched her features and he swore the way her nose wrinkled was the same way Makoto's did.

“What, yer lookin' fer a fight, kid?” He adjusted his hold until he cradled her in the crook of one elbow, enough to raise his hand and flex his fingers in claws over and over, “Think ya can take on a mad dog and win?”

Gurgle, spit. Wave hands a little, never breaking eye contact.

“Shit, yer already trainin' for it, aren't ya,” he muttered, lowering his hand to her stomach and gently clawing into her skin. She wriggled and squirmed at the sensation. He gazed at her, entranced.

“Grr,” he rumbled gently at her, then, intensifying his hand, “Grrr,”

After she flailed she rumbled back, spit bubbling as she mimicked the sound.

Awe dug through his chest and deep into his gut, sending his head up into the clouds. Whether the baby understood it or not, the mimicry made Majima nearly drop the kid on the floor, overwhelmed with emotion that he was.

“Shit,” he started to breathe, “Shit, shit, shit, shit. Shit. Shit,” staring at the kid, gazing at her, careful with how he held her, just over and over, “Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit,”

A thought struck him like lightning and anxiety broke through awe as the baby, lulled by his constant whispers of shit, fell asleep in his arms. His tongue twisted and he froze. The baby. The baby. Babies take not just work, but one wrong move and the baby winds up dead or worse. With him and his...occupation, so to speak, even if nothing happened to the girl directly, the amount she could be fucked by this—the amount that just Yasuko had been screwed over, not to mention Makoto herself—

When the nurse had entered Majima didn't know but whether that nurse was ready or not he shot to his full height, shoving his daughter into the nurse's arms before dashing out of the room, no explanation. Because shit. Shit. Shit shit shit shit shit shit shit SHIT!

Majima skidded on the hospital floor, creating big black marks on the tile as he nearly blew past a pay phone. Magnetizing himself to it he poured more change than necessary in it and dialed, heart screaming.

“Uh...hello?” Nishida answered, confused and tired. It was then Majima realized it was after three in the morning—not that he could be blamed for losing track of time as Makoto was in labor for so long.

“Nishida, fuck, shit,” Majima sputtered, and soon Nishida was sputtering too, both out of fear and shock.

“B-B-Boss?! B-Boss is—is everything alright?!”

“Fuck!” Majima shouted, effectively silencing Nishida even though he didn't realize it, “Fuck, Nishida, what do I do?!”

Silence, again because of shock and fear on Nishida's end. Majima heard him stir, probably sitting up in bed, and when he spoke again he was confused but curious that Majima was sincerely asking for his help for something he assumed to not be bashing some poor ass's head in.

“What...do you mean?”

“Ya lived alone with yer mom, right? Real family guy, right?” Majima peppered him, “Out in the middle of buttfuck nowhere, with other family people?”

“Uh...,” Nishida tried to juggle between answering Majima earnestly or just going along with it, “Er...I suppose so, yeah,”

“How the fuck do you take care of a baby?!”

Nishida was quiet again for a long time. He was one of the only of the Majima family close enough not only to know Makoto, but to know she was pregnant, and to even see her as such, and even, out of Majima's eyesight and with Makoto's permission, put his hand on her swollen belly.

“Oh,” he finally said, “Boss...,”

“Don't ya 'Oh, Boss' me!!” Majima's voice cracked, “I'm gonna crack yer head open!!”

Unknown (or very known) to Majima, Nishida was biting his lips so hard he was drawing blood to keep from laughing, happy to hear from his boss's voice that the birth went fine, because now the baby had to grow up and that was now the cause for panic.

“O-Okay! Okay!” Nishida backed down, “J-Just breathe, Boss, it's gonna be okay, you and Makoto-san and the baby are all okay, okay? Yes?”

Majima made a gurgled sound into the phone that sounded like a deeper, older version of his daughter's rumble. Nishida took that as a yes, then sighed.

“Cancel yer fuckin' plans,” Majima demanded into the receiver, voice still cracking, “Get yer ass to the hospital as soon as the sun's up, or I'm gonna break yer knees and drag ya here,”

Nishida flinched away as Majima slammed the phone down to hang up. What, the Boss giving him until dawn to come to the hospital? Things must've gone better than they had hoped. Far, far better. Nishida smiled and rolled back over to lay down until sunrise.

Chapter Text

Majima stumbled as the floor spun, the metal tips of his boots gleaming like they shouldn't have. Shaking his head did nothing to bring things back to normal. Blood spatters on the concrete beneath his feet looked dark and surreal, even though the bat in his hands was painted with much the same. Disregarding that he may have been worsening the mess, he brought his free hand up to dig at his scalp, panting wearily. Thank fuck there was no one around to see him now.

Or that they were already dead.

He breathed. In. Out. In. Out. His hands shook. Yeah he had killed people before, no it wasn't a case of 'it never gets easier'. It was a case of one of the two bodies in the room was not his doing, and that first dead body caused the second.

His stupefied eye wandered to see twisted feet dressed in delicate heels, slamming his eye shut before it followed pale, willowy legs to a distorted face. What the hell had this guy been doing? How much of it had he done? Keeping some woman's fresh corpse in his office space as he lit up cigarettes without a damn care in the world—Majima almost felt righteous that he barged in here, because it gave him the opportunity to make up for it. A corpse for a corpse—not really a righteous policy, but one that Majima had little control over when he saw an innocent dead on the floor.

Whatever. He hadn't come in here to kill someone, be that it turned out that way. Although he was glad he did—the files he had plucked out of cabinet spread against the askew desk proved it. Majima pressed his leaden hand a little too much against the files, spreading them farther out. Makoto's name littered them—documents of the exchange over the Empty Lot, documents of her lineage, whereabouts, just information about her in yakuza hands still. He had spent the past five, or was it ten, years hunting down whoever held documents like this, burning each and every one he came across. With men like this holding onto recent files of where and what she was doing, Majima was glad he was dead.

Hyper-focusing on the files instead of speculating who the woman in the corner might've been, Majima slid them off of the desk, neverminding the spatters of blood he disturbed, and sat on the edge of a plant pot. The dead yakuza's legs served as a footrest as his one eye skimmed over each paper. On a different day he'd be more thorough and take his time in the office to make sure he didn't miss a single copy, but today...Today? Fuck it. Majima stuck a cigarette in his mouth, lit it, then lit the files on fire.

His eye glazed over, watching the papers burn. For her. For her and always for her. Fuck. That woman was dead in the corner for some unknown reason that wouldn't ever be good enough. How close had Makoto come to being that woman? How close was she now?

For some damned reason an address on the paper burned in his mind before the flames burned it. He blinked, but the memory remained even as he dropped the papers on the pant leg of the dead yakuza to curl. Part of him wanted to just burn the whole building down now, with him inside it. Now that he knew the address, it was only fair, right? Even he didn't keep any files about her. Not even a picture.

Not even a picture.

He closed his eye as the fire changed sounds as it started to lick at the pant legs, fizzling on hair beneath. The address. The address. The dead woman in the corner. The address.

A strangled noise crept through his chest and he stood up, stomping the fire out and nearly tripping and falling from the uneven ground the legs made. The address.

Fear and hope pinched his heart and he stumbled off the dead man. Address.

That what he was going to do might've been considered stalking was only a small voice in his mind, and even though it nagged the pain dragging his face down and the fear kicking his head to pieces spoke louder. The address kept repeating itself over and over and over in his mind as he slammed the door holding the two corpses shut. He couldn't trust to write it down, because someone else could've seen it. He had to trust his memory, and when it came to her his memory was agonizingly clear.

Though, for his own sanity, he should've let a few days pass. He couldn't let more than a few hours of vivid sleep go before he was ripping through his wardrobe. It hit him all too quickly that he had, absolutely, no fucking clue what normal people wore. All he had were flashy suits and absolutely gaudy shit that would make him stick out like a sore thumb. The address he had memorized, he knew it was in the suburbs somewhere beyond the outskirts of the city. The thought made him honestly ill, him, trawling about a quiet neighborhood with snakeskin and tats out. Not to mention leather pants that clung a little too tightly in the right places to...accentuate. Taunt, or whatever it would do for him.

After far too long he finally settled on black slacks and suitcoat he hoped wasn't too flashy, because the least intimidating thing he had to wear underneath was a goldenrod button-up. (He almost went with red, but red held too much power. At least he skipped the tie.) After that, he made the quick decision to slip his eyepatch into his breast pocket and cover his eyes with a pair of aviators. Couldn't risk her recognizing him. Couldn't risk anything—this whole escapade could cost her so, so much more than he was willing to put her through. But he had to check, he had to know.

It burned like the files in his mind as he hopped on at least one more train than necessary, taking the longest way to the suburbs possible just in case. Just in case.

When he stepped off the train it was like walking into a concrete wall. He had made such a huge, huge mistake. There were kids running about, mothers pouring over grocery lists, no criers in the streets, no broken needles or used condoms, teenagers laughed normally and rough-housed with each other in ways that didn't cause broken noses and black eyes. This was not a place where he could even pretend to blend in, much less convince someone that he was just there to make sure someone was safe. Yeah. Didn't seem like he was gonna stake the joint at all.

He had just, after all, killed someone.

Majima swallowed, hoped he didn't stand like an idiot for too long in the small train station, then headed off, address burned in his mind. No one had followed him, unless they had better clothes to disguise themselves with than he did. Making sure the aviators were firm on his face, he counted the street numbers until he arrived at the correct block, secluded and ending in a small cul de sac surrounded by cute houses clustered together like trees in a forest. It wasn't lonely, but it was secluded. Early morning was giving way to mid-morning, and the houses lazily bustled with the promise of school starting soon. He had already passed more than one uniform-clad group of young teens, and had spied more than one child's backpack bouncing happily as they walked the streets unattended.

Shit, man. The second thoughts he had were screaming until his head rang.

A few kids, their backpacks resting against low yard fences, played as they waited for what Majima presumed to be a larger line of kids to go to school with. Those days had been so long ago for him now they might as well have been repressed. Some of the kids' heads perked up like meerkats as he tried to look casual, strolling down the street, but for the most part they didn't raise the alarm. Awkward and knowing it, Majima tried to look particularly interested in a weed sprouting from a crack in the asphalt, already turning around some bullshit excuse in his mind as to what he was doing. Botany, sure. Suburban botany. Yeah fuckin' right.

Why did it have to be now, when he had already traveled at least two hours, shitty disguise fooling nobody on, that he realized that discreetly finding out about her was impossible? Even if he waited for the kids to leave for school, what then? Knock on doors like a fuckin' missionary? He wished he could take his head off and curb-stomp it for its stupidity—yeah, a missionary, who had to use their voice, talk to people, interact—

“Cloudy day, isn't it?”

Majima froze, pulled from his stunt of suburban botany, and slowly turned around, spine stiff and jaw clenched. There she was, standing pleasantly. Orange and pink flannel peeked out just from behind a pastel windbreaker; it looked like she was only expecting to be outside for a moment, perhaps monitoring, watching the children. His heart crashed into his feet—one of them could be hers. Of all the stupid things he was already doing, he made it worse because his instinct twisted his head back to look at the kids tossing a ball back and forth. It was so mind-numbingly normal and stereotypical it seemed surreal, even Makoto's pleasantries didn't seem right.

Before he could really study and find out if any of them could be her kids she spoke again, just as pleasant, “Excuse me, sir, did you have a question about the kids?”

Majima blinked and looked back to her. Well, it wasn't out of the blue, but it wasn't quite as sterile as a comment about the weather. She smiled at him all the same but something was off—it was like he was watching an actress act, not someone truly smile. Trying to hide a swallow, he shook his head.

“Good,” the word was forceful from her lips despite the pleasant tone, but before Majima could nod and scuttle away like a log had been lifted over a cockroach she stepped up into his space and her eyes became sharp and dangerous, lips curling into a snarl, “Because I will drag you to hell if you so much as look at them wrong,”

Thankful that the aviators shielded most of his expression, Majima blinked rapidly, eye wide and struggling on whether to show how impressed versus how intimidated off the bat he was. Makoto kept herself planted in his space, glaring into her own reflection on the aviators. When she finally let him be it wasn't at all like she had backed down. He imagined that her hackles were still raised and teeth were bared behind her sweet lips, even as she walked away to tend to the children.

“Takeru-kun,” she chastised, too much of a bite to her words to show Majima that his suspicions were correct, “Throw the ball a little gentler, Ken-chan's still learning,”

Takeru, the boy in question, let out a comical whine of protest before retorting, “But Ken-chan's dad said—,”

“I don't care what he said,” Makoto huffed, firm, “It's on you to learn to be gentle or not, but I'm here to ask you to be gentle,”

The harshness of Makoto's voice seemed to take Takeru by surprise, and, holding the ball wide-eyed, he murmured a sullen 'yes, Makimura-san', softening his play. Majima watched her, noticing that the arcs of her shoulder blades were barely showing from behind the windbreaker from how much he put her at unease. More than that, the comfortable use of her surname—her unchanged surname—told Majima that, perhaps, none of these were her children.

The eldest of the children, a beanpole of a girl that Majima guessed would be ditching the elementary backpack for a uniform soon, cautiously approached her from the side. Busying himself with the breadth of suburban flora in the asphalt, he tilted his head a little to hear better.

“Makimura-san, is everything...alright?”

Makoto didn't seem to move, though her arms were crossed in front of her. Her voice remained tight, watching Takeru learn to adjust the power and bounce of the ball to the youngest kid there, “Is your brother coming out, Yumi-san?”

The girl nodded, but her gaze was steady and concerned on Makoto, “He's late, as usual,”

Makoto hummed, unhappy. Suddenly feeling as though he was surrounded, even if it was nothing but just eyes, he felt himself start to sweat and panic. There was no way in goddamn hell he was going to be able to convince Makoto of all people that he meant no harm while he was loitering around, especially not in front of children that it seemed she had been tasked with watching over until school started. God fucking help him if any other mothers or fathers or whoever started emerging from their homes, all to judge and pitchfork him. In truth it didn't matter too much to him if he was burned at the stake or not, but the idea that he had made everyone's lives in this quiet little town worse, that maybe, if he met his end here, white-knight sorts of yakuza would come hunting for revenge—goddamnit he really should've planned this out more than not at all.

“HEY! Hiroki-kun!”

Majima jolted upright.

“CATCH!”

The ball did not make it to Hiroki. Majima was honestly just thankful the ball hit so square into his face that any noises he did make were squelched. Clamping his teeth down on the insides of his cheeks both out of reflex and out of desperate courtesy to not shout something, thus bringing the pitchforks to his attention and scaring the children in the process, Majima stumbled until his ass met the iron fence behind him. His gloved hands went to his face immediately, cupping around his nose. Again, out of reflex. The ball could never in a million years hit him like a punch could, and the loud, hollow THOONK sound it made as it bounced off was the sound of no real harm done. Grunting and grinding his teeth on his cheeks, he pinched the tip of his nose and shook it back and forth like he had to put it back in place, glancing up to see a shocked kid standing in front of him. New, from the house that had been behind him. Presumably the Hiroki that the hotshot Takeru greeted with a ball to Majima's face. Not only was he shocked but he seemed absolutely horrified, too, like Majima would do something. He blinked, readying an expression to show the kid that he was okay when he realized something.

The aviators had been knocked off.

Shot with panic, he slapped a hand over his missing eye and ducked down to scramble for them at the same time Hiroki ducked to chase the runaway ball. Majima's outstretched fingers curled in pain as he watched the kid's shoes destroy the aviators. Teeth now visibly clenched onto his lower lip, Majima hissed through them in a barely disguised wail of defeat.

No real harm done, huh. No wonder the kid looked horrified. Fuck.

“Hiroki-kun!” Makoto ordered, jarring the kid to her side, ball in his short arms. Majima stammered on several fucks, whispered so low he couldn't even hear himself as he turned to keep his good eye towards them, no matter how conspicuous it looked. The moment Hiroki made it to her side he pulled on her arm, making her lean down though her intense gaze was thoroughly fixated on him. Suspicion cut through him like a laser—she was tensed on the balls of her feet waiting for how he would truly react.

The kid said something to her about his eye, he caught on to enough of what he said to know that. Queasy and dizzy, Majima tried not to pant too hard, struggling to straighten his back. The tension was so palpable Majima could've been pushed back all the way to the train station. Hell, all the way back to Kamurocho. Used condoms and broken needles would be a welcoming sight over kids and kickballs.

Like a short legion from heaven, down the street came the joyful clamor of kids from the surrounding neighborhoods, all clustered together as they headed for school. Red and black backpacks bounced in various ways according to the care the kid gave their bag, some even so bold as to swing them along while others balanced them on their heads as they tried to keep walking. All the kids behind Makoto looked to the line then back to him, back to Makoto to discern her judgment on the situation. Finally Yumi nodded to herself, ushering the kids forwards down the street before she followed.

“Makimura-san—,”

“Have a good day at school,” Makoto called, putting on an overly normal tone despite everything, “Stay safe.”

Majima winced, staying put until the kids disappeared around the corner. He twitched to move but before he knew it Makoto was in his space again, gripping his elbow without fear and staring him down. It wasn't until he could no longer hear the kids that she let him go and took a step back.

“Who are you, what are you here for?” She demanded of him. Majima gulped, feeling it all the way down his throat and into his stomach. Should he answer and give himself away immediately? Keep quiet and try to leave? One was more suspicious than the other, but the other got her much too involved. Makoto's eyes drilled into him and he knew he still wasn't over just the general idea that she could see from the way sweat beaded on his temples. He'd have to make a decision soon or the neighborhood was damned.

Without warning, Makoto dropped her gaze. Majima blinked, watching her in nervous curiosity. Her arms were still crossed in front of her but her feet weren't so firmly planted anymore, drawing unseen lines on the asphalt until the toe of her shoe nudged against the complete wreckage of the aviators. When she looked back up Majima was caught off-guard, stricken by how tired and sorry she looked even if he could still see the walls up around her.

“I'm sorry, at the very least,” she was eying the hand that was still clamped over his bad eye. His stomach twisted, knowing that some part of her recognized him from the incident right before he had walked away. Wincing again, Majima almost opened his mouth to tell her she didn't have to be. Almost. It was his fault he came out all this way for practically nothing, anyways. He should've had more faith in her building a life for herself, keeping herself safe, keeping others safe.

But then again, he didn't need to be roped to a pole and have his other eye dug out to be told that even the strongest, safest people could be fucked over. Maybe the yakuza was just a filekeeper.

Maybe he was going to do something with the files.

Majima didn't realize that Makoto was studying his eye until it was too late to change his entranced expression. She glanced around her neighborhood, holding herself a little tighter, then hardened her expression.

“Come. If you have business, we'll do it inside.”

Makoto gestured for him to move first. It took a while for him to not only get, but agree to move, nervous that he obviously was. Despite all this she thought herself sacrificially suicidal. She didn't know why this man had appeared when he did, she didn't know what connections he had other than she vaguely recalled one of the harassers from so long ago referring to him as legendary. That incident was the only reason her guard was lowered, once she had realized that this man must have been one and the same. He certainly wasn't lost, since he was dressed somewhat appropriately for the suburbs, and Makoto knew that out of everyone that lived in this area, this sweet little neighborhood, she was the only one he would be magnetized to. She was the only one with any sort of...history. With this sort of thing.

Keeping him at her side or in front of her, never behind her, she led him to the backyard of one of the smaller houses. She followed him up the staircase that zig-zagged up the back of the house, cornering him by standing between him and escape as she unlocked and opened the door. She was the only one in the neighborhood that did lock her door. He didn't need to know that.

When he stepped inside before her he stood rooted to the spot, watching as she locked the door behind her, slipped out of her shoes and into the main hallway. Makoto turned around, staring at him eye to eye with the added step up from the front of the doorway.

Silence. Neither of them moved, but it wasn't clear who was refusing to give way versus who was just unable to do anything. Makoto narrowed her eyes. His hand dipped into his suit coat, watching her to note the tension in her muscles.

Out came an eyepatch. Makoto forced herself to relax as he cautiously slipped it on.

Then she left to the kitchen to make tea. She did so as quietly as possible, listening to him reluctantly take his shoes off and step into the second floor apartment proper. From the archway into the kitchen she eyed him in her peripherals as he slowly wandered into the dining room. He was taking everything in, the cozy snugness of the narrow halls, the practical decorations that she stuffed into whatever corner she could making the apartment even snugger than it was. Closed-in comfort. Room to breathe, but everywhere there was something to look at. Artwork, either purchased or made from the kids she watched over. Attempts at apartment horticulture, especially in the small windowsill spaces. Folded blankets, more than one person could use, all out for the world to see instead of stashed in a linen closet. The man saw it all, drinking it in with more interest than a bored yakuza would. Makoto watched as, eye still taking in details, he folded his long legs in front of the kotatsu.

Then he found the alcove.

Makoto watched as he studied it for a long time. It was in that small space that she filled with pictures of her family. Rather, filled with pictures of what she had lost. Taking up most of it was a picture of Lee, next to the most recent picture of her brother Kiryu could dig up for her before he had said good-bye. Behind them on a higher shelf were her mother and grandfather, though sometimes she turned their faces away from her in both shame and anger. Sometimes, even, she'd turn her brother and Lee away.

There was only one she couldn't change, and that was the empty space at the bottom edge of the alcove, off to the side. Set with flowers she had replaced just yesterday. A tulip resting in a bed of forget-me-nots—flowers she had learned the meanings of from one of her neighbors. She noticed that the picture-less offering wasn't lost on him, though if he knew what it meant, who could say. Part of him wished he hadn't seen it, hadn't disturbed its presence with acknowledgment.

The tea was ready—ready enough. Makoto forced his attention away by entering the room. She poured, quiet, but she broke the silence before the tea was fully served.

“Again. Who are you, what are you doing here?”

The man was quiet, but he looked at her like he had an answer. Crinkling her nose in distaste, keeping him in peripherals at all times, she snapped.

“I know it's about me. No one else in this neighborhood has any business with your kind.”

The man frowned, pulling the teacup away from his lips. Curious. Seemed like he disagreed with that statement and had reason to. Makoto clenched her fingers into fists, unclenched them, frustrated, then looked at him. She felt her eyes puff up already, emotional.

“It's over. Leave me alone. I don't want anything to do with this anymore.”

She wished she could say she hadn't flinched, but she did when he hunched down a little, perching his head forward as if he was listening far too intently. Trying to catch any other meanings to what she said. Makoto sneered, but she knew the desperation made it weak.

“Ten years of peace, but looking over my shoulder even when I don't hear a noise. Ten years and I almost got used to the idea that maybe I was free, but you, you here, knowing where I am...,”

Makoto stared at him, unaware that she was breathing faster than normal, “Either you're stalking me, or...or...,”

He pulled his gaze away then shook his head. Damn her, but she believed him. He was looking down at his gloves, as if trying to put together what to say even though he remained silent as ever. Makoto straightened her back, tea ignored as she stared at him. Though his blind side was facing her she dug into what she could see of his expression.

“...What do they know?” she murmured, bringing his attention back up. That was it. They knew something. They knew. About her? About the neighborhood? The names of the kids she looked after on the odd morning raced through her head, then their parents, then the regular employees she met and talked with when she was out, if she was out. The man watched her shoulders rise and fall in fear, but ultimately he was sympathetic, not worried, it seemed. That being said, he couldn't shake his head.

Clucking his tongue, he looked up to the ceiling to think, then he rummaged in his pockets to bring out his lighter. Flipping it open and flicking the flame on in one smooth motion, he handed it to her. Gingerly, she took it, looking to the flame then to him.

Whatever they knew, he had been destroying.

“Why,” she exhaled, “Why? Who are you, who are you to care, who are you to know—,”

The bombardment of questions he realized he couldn't escape from hit him hard, and he shook his head again and again—after all, she was already falling in way too deep just by knowing that her name was still floating around out there, in use or not. Makoto's palms were flat against the kotatsu, her nails scraping against the surface as she sensed that he was about to flee without answering.

“Who are you to come here and—what do you want, wait—wait!!”

Makoto caught him in the main hallway, trapping him with a slender arm that he refused to butt against. She breathed, heavy and harsh, staring at him. She opened her mouth to ask again.

She closed it and let her arm slip back to her side. Rubbing it self-consciously, she broke her gaze away from him.

“...Go,” she said quietly, “You can go.”

After all, she knew when she was asking questions that would plunge her over her head. Her and all the kids she looked after. But the regret and the pain in being left in the dark was as obvious as the pictureless offering.

It broke Majima's heart.

Fuck it. Fuck everything. All that business of keeping her safe—it meant nothing if none of it kept her happy on top of that. It wasn't just about her being alive, it was about her living.

It was easier than he would've expected, even though he knew that leaving would be harder than he was prepared for. Without warning her he stepped forward, opening his arms and pulling her into a hug. He felt her breath escape in a shocked gasp—wrapped in a momentary terror of not knowing his intent. Trying to keep himself soft he sighed, holding her gently so she could escape if she needed to.

Though she was stiff, she didn't move. Majima squeezed his eye shut, rubbing his thumb along her shoulder.

Makoto melted. Majima pulled her firm against his chest, realizing he had lifted her in the air when the initial kick of her feet brushed against his pant leg. Turning his head, he exhaled warmth to the nape of her neck. She shivered, just barely. The shivers intensified when he finally spoke, murmuring against the collar of her flannel.

“I'll stay. If ya need me to.”

Makoto breathed shallow and shrill, hands raising to claw at the backs of his shoulders—not to push him off but to bring him closer. Pressing his lips to the slope of her shoulder he exhaled again.

“I'll stay.”

Trembling in his hold, her suspended toes turned inwards. The length of her silence and the sudden fragility to her body made him set her back down, gently, gently. As he retreated enough to allow space between them he pressed his lips to her flushed cheek, definite but soft. It was both a statement and a question, reserved and patient. Still, he drew back, intent on freeing her while everything processed itself. Him, there, only to tell her she was safe and he'd continue to keep it that way if he had to, near her or not. That he was still thinking of her after all this time the way she still was.

Makoto threaded her hand through his hair to the back of his head, stopping him from retreating further.

“I didn't keep anything from back then...,” she murmured as she guided him back to rest on her shoulder, “Only memories, and singular photographs...,”

Majima kissed her pulse, spurred by how it quickened yet she relaxed. Remaining slow and kind in his movements, his lips kissed her more as she spoke, the bristle of his beard prickling her skin and causing goosebumps as he traveled to her exposed collarbone, kissing the heart of it.

“But...,”

Majima kissed her again, reveling in her stuttered breath against his knuckles as he started carefully unbuttoning her flannel shirt until his hands could slip underneath and pull her waist closer to him, fingers brushing the edges of her camisole.

“I wish I could've kept you...,”

He left her skin for just a moment and she missed the touch of his beard against her chest. Hand still threaded through his hair, she helped him pull away to meet his eye.

“Not a photograph...,” she whispered, “Just you.”

Makoto pulled herself flush against his warmth and let herself be lifted in his arms again to kiss his lips.

Chapter Text

For once, Majima came home before she did. It didn't happen often, but when it did it scared her out of her skin and into the next floor—even when he didn't try. Especially when he didn't try. She'd try to clamp down on a scream that shot into a nasally squeal of distress, buried in her hands as Majima stumbled and crashed over words, inevitably slurred and desperate in his apologies. All he had done was pop his head out from around the corner, or greet her sitting from the kotatsu, or any other list of mundane things that sent her into hysterics. (The worst, to date? He flushed the toilet when neither of them knew the other was in the house, which wound up with Makoto sheepishly handing him tissues to stuff up his nose after she smashed it in with the baseball bat.)

This time she didn't even give a sharp inhale or shout. She simply gave him a tired, hard, unimpressed stare as he popped out from behind the kitchen archway before turning away to slough her work shirt off her shoulders. Majima blinked, momentarily distracted by her bared skin before she pulled comfortable flannel over her camisole, shivering to warm herself up faster. Shuffling past him regardless of where he was standing, she let the angry clouds around her push his chin up and away as he stared in mild worry.

“Hey, hey, Mako-chan?” he fluffed his voice up, using a cutesy nickname he only used during sunny, innocent times between the two of them. The kinds of times that wound up with ice cream on noses and other utter bullshit like that that made him sick later to think about, “Ya messed up our routine, where's the screamin' and bloody noses?”

Makoto scoffed, icy and disregarding as she yanked the fridge door open, already preparing dinner by pulling whatever she needed out and onto the counter. Majima frowned. Not exactly the best response, but not one that demanded his absence. Disregarding her mood he tip-toed up to her, prodding her arm with a gentle finger.

“Mako? Makomakomako-chan—,”

Makoto shot up like a guard dog, lips pushed out in an extremely unamused frown. Of all the days he pushed the cutesy stuff, it had to be today. Not when she actually wanted or desired it, no no no, “Goro, if you want me to break your nose again, I will happily do so,”

Majima pouted comically, but his eye still glimmered as he whined, “But you'll still hand me tissues, right?”

Another cold stare that could've started another ice age right in their kitchen. But she didn't say no. Majima beamed.

“Hey, hey,” he continued on, hounding her from behind, first placing his hands on her shoulders before she sharpened them to peaks, shrugging him to her waist, “Mako-chaaan,”

“Goro...,” Icy. Warning. She pulled a knife from the block and started chopping vegetables loudly. Quite loudly. He couldn't help but continue to grin even though his voice was laced with sincere concern.

“What's goin' on?”

He heard rather than watched the knife slam down on the cutting board, severing the butt end of the daikon. Watching it rock back and forth on the board, he admired her handiwork with a distant sense of fear.

“Nothing,” she answered in such a way that told him she was going to actually answer with the rest of the sentence, “Just. Rough day at work,”

“Yeah?” he adjusted his arms until his hands clasped beneath her belly button, “I know how that goes,”

Makoto huffed. At one point he did, but the tone in his voice was whimsical enough that he was pushing absurdity for a response. Still, she bit back her retorts and opted to hum so deep and grumpy it became a growl. She pushed at his hands, trying to wrench herself free, but he wouldn't listen and only smoothed his grip so that he was pressed further against her back. Scowling, she eventually gave up with a disapproving sigh as she parted the vegetables all in their own little groups.

“Difficult clients trying to argue pricing, squirming unhappy children, the unhygenic—people that I have a hard time putting my hands on,”

“Uh-huh,” he murmured, letting her experiment with moving in his hold until she found she could edge this way and that, enough to reach the fridge, the spice cabinet, the stove, “I hate it when it's hard to put hands on someone,”

Makoto frowned, but continued anyways, “Everyone, even my employees, they were too snappy today, and because of everything I was sharp back, which only escalated things,”

“Oh, see, when I escalate to getting sharp—,”

“Goro...,” she said, exasperated.

“Then things usually calm down quite a bit! An' ya know, yer clients should be the ones with knots in their back, not you, Mako-chan,”

She gently jabbed the hilt of the chef's knife in his stomach then continued, ignoring what he said, “One of the clients that got cocky about the price, he started criticizing everything, but he had the gall to flirt with us as he did so!”

Majima squeezed her belly a little tighter, supportive.

“I took him on instead of subjecting the girls to him, and even then, I stopped the massage halfway through to kick him out,”

Cackling good-naturedly he rubbed his thin beard along her hair, “I mean, takin' guys on, kickin' em, throwin' their criticism in the trash, have ya considered joinin' the Family, Mako-chan?”

Makoto jerked her chin up, meeting him eye to eye with a fierce but melting glare, “I thought I was already part of the family,” she retorted.

Before he could cackle in glee she jutted her hips to the side, trying and failing to push out of his hold as she pulled fish cakes and eggs from the fridge and sauces from the pantry. All the while she resigned herself to the fact that Majima had clung to her for good, nuzzling the top of her head as she cooked. Waddling this way and that together, feeling her gently unwind as the rest of her anger released with preparing oden for their dinner. Dropping the cutesy attitude for just a moment, Majima muttered into her hair, asking if the man had bothered her enough to warrant perhaps an escort or a patrol near the office. Makoto shook her head for now, but that was when he felt the last of her muscles relax from the suggestion. Smile pushing his cheeks up, he found himself humming lightly as she fell into comfortable silence. The occasional sigh only centered her where she was more than before. For all the days he had to be gone, at least he had chosen this one to be with her. God knows what that daikon would look like if he hadn't been there to make sure she didn't take all her rage out on it.

The sound of the lid fitting soundly on the pot jarred him and he opened a now-lazy eye, watching as she brought the oden to a boil then down to a simmer. Sniffing approvingly, he closed his eye again to rest against her. Her body felt warm against his and he pressed further against her—not so much that she lost her balance but enough so he could feel as much of her as he could.

Her hands went to his around her waist and his eye shot back open as her buttock ground against him.

“Ten to fifteen minutes,” she said huskily, gripping hands sliding to his waistband behind her as he sprang to attention, “Make it quick,”

Okay, well. Maybe she still had some knots to work out.

Majima bit his lip then her neck, following her into the adjacent living room while the oden simmered.