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what_we_dreamTitle: Sentimental Gestures Always Have an Ulterior Motive
Series: Gintama
Pairing: None
Rating: PG
Beta: The lovely![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
frauleinfrog oh my hideous memory
Summary: Hijikata and Okita spend some time in a cell. Again.
It is an unwritten law of the universe that everything was, is, and will always be, Hijikata Toushirou’s fault. As far as Okita is concerned, the Bakufu should get their collective asses in gear and draft legislation to that effect so that Hijikata won’t have an excuse to make him rewrite his reports when he states the simple truth.
It goes without saying that the fact that he’s sitting in a concrete room chained to the wall is Hijikata’s fault. The man should have detected the knock-out gas quicker. Okita’s excuse is that no one can be expected to detect the subtle tang of gas under the overpowering reek of mayonnaise his superior exudes.
The make-shift cell is in the basement of some building – there are no windows, and beneath the mayonnaise the room smells of damp and mildew. The restraints are equally makeshift; long iron chains with manacles on one end and a railway spike driven through the final link on the other. The chains, affixed at shoulder-height, are long enough that Okita can rest his wrists on his thighs but would be unable to gain sufficient momentum with a stroke to damage the chains. If he had his sword. Which he inconveniently doesn’t. It’s one of the two most irritating facts of this situation.
“I’m not falling for this again, Sougo,” says the other, flatly, sitting cross-legged beside him.
“Maa, Hijikata-san, it wasn’t me this time.” Okita has already assessed the distance between them: close enough for him to be able to punch Hijikata firmly on the shoulder, but too far for any chance of throttling. He could crush the vice-commander’s windpipe with a kick, but he’s aware that he would be forced to telegraph such a move too far in advance for any chance of success.
“Like I’m going to believe that,” mutters Hijikata. He raises a hand, chains clinking, to reach into his jacket for his cigarettes. Their jackets, like their swords and belts, have been taken. The vice-commander turns the movement into an irritated scratch at his throat, and growls.
“It’s true. How could I have known where we would be?”
“I don’t know,” returns Hijikata, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Maybe by reading the schedule?”
“Does that seem likely to you?”
“If it would give you a chance to screw with me? Yes.”
“Games that work by surprise are only fun the first time, Hijikata-san,” drawls Okita.
“Like hell.” Hijikata tries to cross his arms and only gets halfway.
Okita leans back to stare up at the ceiling. Despite Hijikata’s convictions, he isn’t the one behind this. There would have been no point in trying to play with his superior again; Hijikata would simply react as he is now, by refusing to participate.
Someone else has captured them, possibly with the intention to torturing them for information, or ransom them back to the Shinsengumi, or simply dispose of them slowly for some incident in their shared bloody past. And Hijikata believes the entire thing is a set-up by his subordinate. Which means Okita has the upper hand.
In the poor light slanting in through the dirty glass window in the door, Okita Sougo smiles.
***
“I’m not going to do it,” says Hijikata after a long hour of silence. Okita still has his watch, which is careless because he could easily shatter the glass and use the shards to slice open someone’s jugular, although admittedly with his hands chained as they are probably only his own.
“What’s that, Hijikata-san?”
Hijikata makes a vague gesture, chains clinking. “Whatever it is you want.”
“I told you, it’s not me this time.”
“The fact that you have to say this time explains why I have doubts. Normal people don’t knock their superiors unconscious, chain them up in abandoned buildings and force them into sadistic mind games. Che, I don’t even know why I’m surprised by you anymore. I should be surprised by what you don’t do. I’m surprised there haven’t been any poisonous snakes in my bed,” he adds, as if to keep his new resolution.
“I can’t afford them on my salary,” replies Okita absently.
“SEE? That is NOT THE RESPONSE OF A PROPER SUBORDINATE. NO – OF A PROPER HUMAN BEING.”
“Maa, Hijikata-san, do you have to yell? The acoustic reflection in this room is very high, and my ears are quite sensitive.”
“THEN WHY DON’T YOU JUST LEAVE ALREADY?” snarls Hijikata, swivelling around sharply on the dusty floor to glare at him.
“Maybe when we do leave you should get your ears checked,” suggests Okita mildly. “I know a good doctor.”
“I bet you do.”
“You know, Hijikata-san, paranoia is one of the first signs of serious mental illness.”
Hijikata opens his mouth to reply, and there’s a soft flash of ki from the hallway. They both freeze for an instant, caught in a portrait of stillness in the dirty light. And then Hijikata deliberately relaxes, sitting back against the wall, and Okita turns to stare at the ceiling again.
There’s a click in the door’s lock and it swings open on uneven hinges, coming to a halt when the lower corner slides into the floor.
There’s nothing special about the man that enters. No particular force of character, no sense of danger in his movements, no great size or strength. Okita can tell from the way he walks that the man has trained with a sword, just as he can tell he hasn’t trained enough to be a serious threat. A typical ronin, the kind that spring up like weeds in any sword-bearing faction. He has a bokutou resting on his shoulder, and is carrying no other apparent weapons. Okita writes him off as an idiot.
The ronin stops in front of them, door still open behind him; the hall beyond is dark and empty. Okita doesn’t bother to pay attention to his face; there’s no point. Beside him, Hijikata’s watching the man with an expression of boredom.
“So this is your little friend, Sougo. Took him long enough to show up. No video conference this time? What will you do if I track him down?”
“Hijikata-san, I told you,” begins Okita calmly. The ronin shrugs the bokutou off his shoulder and into a wide sweeping cut which slams into Hijikata’s gut. “He’s not my friend.”
Hijikata doubles over, gagging, and the bokutou is withdrawn. “I’ll make this clear,” the man says, while Hijikata straightens to glare at him, and Okita begins tracing patterns in the water stains on the ceiling in boredom. “This isn’t about you. You can rot in here for all I care, starve away to skeletons. Or maybe your pals will find you and get you out; it doesn’t matter. You’re not important. All that matters is that the pair of you are here, rather than at the Shinsengumi headquarters ready to deal with the attack about to be made on the Bakufu.”
Okita blinks, pattern lost. Beside him, his superior’s back snaps up straight. “Oi – aren’t you one of the new recruits? Fujino!”
“Fujiwara,” corrects the man flatly, but Hijikata isn’t listening and rolls right on over him.
“Why the hell are you working for Okita? Okita, you’ve been getting your hooks into the new recruits this early? He’s hardly been around a month! That’s dirty.”
Okita turns to look at his superior, eyes narrowed, and pointedly strips the usual layers of blandness and irresponsibility from his voice. “He isn’t working for me.”
“Sorry, but I never had any intention of giving my loyalty to the Shinsengumi,” admits Fujiwara. Now that he’s been identified as one of the new recruits, Okita thinks he may indeed seem a bit familiar, but he never bothers paying attention to anyone below the fourth tier. “My sole job was to decoy you two from headquarters on the required date.”
“This is a pretty nice story you two’ve cooked up, but I liked the bomb better. It’s hard to feel urgency about a bunch of corrupt officials. So why don’t you just let me go already, and I’ll pretend it was suspenseful. It’s a good deal. Fujino, I’ll even give you a three minute head-start. That’s pretty generous.”
“I told you, I’m not working for Captain Okita,” says Fujiwara, eyebrows twitching.
“And I told you, I’m not falling for this again,” growls Hijikata, losing his patience and straining against the chains.
It’s a pity, thinks Okita as Fujiwara slams his bokutou into Hijikata’s head, the impact cracking the vice-commander’s skull back into the wall hard enough that Okita can hear the ugly sound of flesh and bone crushing against concrete, that yet again no one will believe him when he tells them this is all Hijikata’s fault.
***
There’s no need to worry about Hijikata; the man’s a demon, after all, and in any case Okita can’t stand him, so why bother? He’s not particularly worried about the Bakufu, either – they sold out a long time ago, and even the Shinsengumi is aware of it, although they pretend not to be.
What Okita is worried about is the fact that if left to themselves to fix this mess his men are going to screw it up, and that will mean a lot of paperwork. And even when Hijikata wakes up, with the unreasonable grudge he’ll inevitably hold he probably won’t let Okita push it off on him.
So Okita breaks the glass cover of his watch’s face by slamming it with calculated force against the raised corner of his manacle where the two halves join, and picks up the biggest shard. And, settling down for the long haul, begins the painful and tedious process of prying out the pin from the manacle’s hinges.
***
It’s a long time before Hijikata stirs; Okita has splintered two of the shards of glass, one in the flesh of his index finger, and pried the pin out only a hair’s breadth.
It’s a small movement, just a twitch of his fingers and a shift in his breathing habits, but in an otherwise empty cell it’s the equivalent of a shout. Okita continues working at the manacle.
A few moments later, Hijikata opens his eyes, twisting to lie on his back with his arms at odd angles above him. “Nn – ‘s happen?” His words are slow and slurred and fragmented. Okita glances down at him, and sees that his eyes are completely unfocused.
“You were wrong,” he says, going back to his work.
“S’go?”
“Unfortunately. You know, Hijikata-san, if you’re going to goad your captors, you could at least try to avoid having your head bashed in. I’m going to have to fill in a lot of paperwork.” The sharp side of the glass fragment slices another cut in the pad of his already-bloody thumb; he makes a face.
“Where …” Hijikata shifts in an uncoordinated, heavy movement, head lolling to face Okita. “S’go?” He asks, as if he’s just seen him.
Okita pauses, glances down. Hijikata groans, rolls further to lie on his side, and begins to retch.
Okita begins to think they may have more problems than he had bargained on.
***
He’s wondering how much longer it’ll be before he has to start using his teeth, wonders if he can pull his lips back far enough for that to be effective. His fingers are slick with blood, and the pin isn’t noticeably further out. And Hijikata has been falling into longer silences.
Okita frowns, and kicks Hijikata in the shin again. The vice-commander starts, and mutters something about taking a bath.
It’s become clear that Hijikata’s concussion is serious. Normally that wouldn’t be a problem, but normally they wouldn’t be chained to a wall while across the city some idiot radicalists race to bring down the government.
Of course, he doesn’t need Hijikata to escape or to stop the rabid bombers. He can do both those things very competently – or will be able to as soon as he pulls the damn pins out of his manacles. The problem is that he’s going to have to do something about Hijikata.
Okita has absolutely nothing against kicking a man when he’s down – or, for that matter, shooting him with an RPG when he’s down. If he’s down it’s his own damn fault, and if he’s too slow to dodge he deserves what’s coming to him, even if it’s coming on the head of a gunpowder-fuelled rocket. The fact that Hijikata is technically his friend and definitely his superior makes no difference to his feelings – in fact, if anything it enhances them. It’s been his ambition for years to see Hijikata walk into disaster on his own two feet.
While Okita does feel a certain sense of fulfilment, he can only believe that his overall lack of satisfaction is due to the fact that rather than remaining a spectator to Hijikata’s downfall, the bastard had to drag him along.
***
With his watch broken and no window, Okita can’t tell how much time has passed. All he knows is that he’s down to his last shard of glass, his fingers look like the corpse of the victim in a slasher film, and he has only managed to lever the pin approximately three millimetres out of its hinge.
Next to him, Hijikata groans and rolls his head to stare at Okita. His eyes are dull like milk tea, his posture horrendous. Okita ignores him, just as he has for the past however-long-it’s-been.
Hijikata makes a sound that might be one of surprise, and tries to sit up. He ends up toppling over to lean against Okita; Okita raises his elbow in preparation for deployment without looking away from the manacle.
“Mitsuba?” says Hijikata, sounding extremely puzzled.
Okita goes very stiff. Stops fidgeting with the glass, stops wrinkling his eyebrows, stops breathing.
“Why’re you here?” Hijikata’s slurring his words, head lolling on Okita’s shoulder.
Okita looks down very slowly. Hijikata is staring up at him from beneath his mop of hair, dark brows furrowed. His eyes track from Okita’s face to his hands, paused above his chest in the act of prying at the manacle’s pin.
Like a drunk reaching for the double of a bottle, Hijikata’s hand extends shakily and grasps first at air, then at Okita’s wrist. He catches hold of the hand Okita has been using to pry with and pulls it over to examine it with a ridiculously child-like intensity.
“The hell’d you do?” mumbles the vice-captain. Okita allows him to unfold his fingers, watches curiously as Hijikata carefully regards the bloody pad of each. “Careless.”
Okita’s fingers twitch involuntarily as his eyes harden. You should have told her to be careful, he wants to say. You should have told her you would care if she got hurt. What the fuck good did pretending you didn’t care do her?
But he doesn’t. He lets Hijikata suck the blood from his fingers, tongue soft and warm, and then clumsily bandage them with strips from his cravat before drifting off again into semi-unconsciousness with Okita’s shoulder as his pillow. Doesn’t say anything to break the illusion.
Because right now, for Hijikata, Mitsuba is still alive. And Okita knows what it is to want that, more than anything.
And also because, when they get out of here, Okita will be able to mock his boss for years.
Okita picks up the last shard of glass, and begins again.
***
The door swings open with a creak. Hijikata, lying on his side like the lazy bastard he is, doesn’t look up. Okita watches as Fujiwara crosses the floor, smiling.
“Good news,” he announces, pulling a knife from his sleeve. “We have just invaded the Bakufu compound. Which means you’ve served your spare purpose as back-up hostages.” He steps over to Okita, blade raised.
Okita smiles, and watches Fujiwara blanch.
Between his teeth is the pin to the manacles.
***
“So I used the attacker’s cell phone to alert Squads One and Two, and then proceeded on foot to the target myself,” says Okita, sitting in front of Kondou-san with his report at his side. “And we were able to subdue the terrorists without any major damage.”
“And Toushi?”
“Yamazaki called an ambulance for him.”
“Why didn’t you?” asks Kondou-san, frowning in vague confusion.
“The battery died,” lies Okita immediately, with a straight face. Kondou-san’s confusion disappears, and he nods firmly.
“Ah. And this is all in your report?”
Okita glances down at the single piece of paper and then back up again, smiling angelically. “More or less, sir.”
“Alright. You should go rest, Sougo. Make sure to keep your hands clean! Don’t piss on them!”
“I’ll keep that in mind, Kondou-san.”
Okita rises, passes Kondou-san his report, and steps out.
The good news is, with Hijikata in the hospital for a week, his report will be approved by Kondou-san himself, who never actually reads what he stamps. Which means Okita won’t have to rewrite it.
This, he considers, is perfectly reasonable. After all, it was all Hijikata’s fault.
Series: Gintama
Pairing: None
Rating: PG
Beta: The lovely
frauleinfrog Summary: Hijikata and Okita spend some time in a cell. Again.
It is an unwritten law of the universe that everything was, is, and will always be, Hijikata Toushirou’s fault. As far as Okita is concerned, the Bakufu should get their collective asses in gear and draft legislation to that effect so that Hijikata won’t have an excuse to make him rewrite his reports when he states the simple truth.
It goes without saying that the fact that he’s sitting in a concrete room chained to the wall is Hijikata’s fault. The man should have detected the knock-out gas quicker. Okita’s excuse is that no one can be expected to detect the subtle tang of gas under the overpowering reek of mayonnaise his superior exudes.
The make-shift cell is in the basement of some building – there are no windows, and beneath the mayonnaise the room smells of damp and mildew. The restraints are equally makeshift; long iron chains with manacles on one end and a railway spike driven through the final link on the other. The chains, affixed at shoulder-height, are long enough that Okita can rest his wrists on his thighs but would be unable to gain sufficient momentum with a stroke to damage the chains. If he had his sword. Which he inconveniently doesn’t. It’s one of the two most irritating facts of this situation.
“I’m not falling for this again, Sougo,” says the other, flatly, sitting cross-legged beside him.
“Maa, Hijikata-san, it wasn’t me this time.” Okita has already assessed the distance between them: close enough for him to be able to punch Hijikata firmly on the shoulder, but too far for any chance of throttling. He could crush the vice-commander’s windpipe with a kick, but he’s aware that he would be forced to telegraph such a move too far in advance for any chance of success.
“Like I’m going to believe that,” mutters Hijikata. He raises a hand, chains clinking, to reach into his jacket for his cigarettes. Their jackets, like their swords and belts, have been taken. The vice-commander turns the movement into an irritated scratch at his throat, and growls.
“It’s true. How could I have known where we would be?”
“I don’t know,” returns Hijikata, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Maybe by reading the schedule?”
“Does that seem likely to you?”
“If it would give you a chance to screw with me? Yes.”
“Games that work by surprise are only fun the first time, Hijikata-san,” drawls Okita.
“Like hell.” Hijikata tries to cross his arms and only gets halfway.
Okita leans back to stare up at the ceiling. Despite Hijikata’s convictions, he isn’t the one behind this. There would have been no point in trying to play with his superior again; Hijikata would simply react as he is now, by refusing to participate.
Someone else has captured them, possibly with the intention to torturing them for information, or ransom them back to the Shinsengumi, or simply dispose of them slowly for some incident in their shared bloody past. And Hijikata believes the entire thing is a set-up by his subordinate. Which means Okita has the upper hand.
In the poor light slanting in through the dirty glass window in the door, Okita Sougo smiles.
“I’m not going to do it,” says Hijikata after a long hour of silence. Okita still has his watch, which is careless because he could easily shatter the glass and use the shards to slice open someone’s jugular, although admittedly with his hands chained as they are probably only his own.
“What’s that, Hijikata-san?”
Hijikata makes a vague gesture, chains clinking. “Whatever it is you want.”
“I told you, it’s not me this time.”
“The fact that you have to say this time explains why I have doubts. Normal people don’t knock their superiors unconscious, chain them up in abandoned buildings and force them into sadistic mind games. Che, I don’t even know why I’m surprised by you anymore. I should be surprised by what you don’t do. I’m surprised there haven’t been any poisonous snakes in my bed,” he adds, as if to keep his new resolution.
“I can’t afford them on my salary,” replies Okita absently.
“SEE? That is NOT THE RESPONSE OF A PROPER SUBORDINATE. NO – OF A PROPER HUMAN BEING.”
“Maa, Hijikata-san, do you have to yell? The acoustic reflection in this room is very high, and my ears are quite sensitive.”
“THEN WHY DON’T YOU JUST LEAVE ALREADY?” snarls Hijikata, swivelling around sharply on the dusty floor to glare at him.
“Maybe when we do leave you should get your ears checked,” suggests Okita mildly. “I know a good doctor.”
“I bet you do.”
“You know, Hijikata-san, paranoia is one of the first signs of serious mental illness.”
Hijikata opens his mouth to reply, and there’s a soft flash of ki from the hallway. They both freeze for an instant, caught in a portrait of stillness in the dirty light. And then Hijikata deliberately relaxes, sitting back against the wall, and Okita turns to stare at the ceiling again.
There’s a click in the door’s lock and it swings open on uneven hinges, coming to a halt when the lower corner slides into the floor.
There’s nothing special about the man that enters. No particular force of character, no sense of danger in his movements, no great size or strength. Okita can tell from the way he walks that the man has trained with a sword, just as he can tell he hasn’t trained enough to be a serious threat. A typical ronin, the kind that spring up like weeds in any sword-bearing faction. He has a bokutou resting on his shoulder, and is carrying no other apparent weapons. Okita writes him off as an idiot.
The ronin stops in front of them, door still open behind him; the hall beyond is dark and empty. Okita doesn’t bother to pay attention to his face; there’s no point. Beside him, Hijikata’s watching the man with an expression of boredom.
“So this is your little friend, Sougo. Took him long enough to show up. No video conference this time? What will you do if I track him down?”
“Hijikata-san, I told you,” begins Okita calmly. The ronin shrugs the bokutou off his shoulder and into a wide sweeping cut which slams into Hijikata’s gut. “He’s not my friend.”
Hijikata doubles over, gagging, and the bokutou is withdrawn. “I’ll make this clear,” the man says, while Hijikata straightens to glare at him, and Okita begins tracing patterns in the water stains on the ceiling in boredom. “This isn’t about you. You can rot in here for all I care, starve away to skeletons. Or maybe your pals will find you and get you out; it doesn’t matter. You’re not important. All that matters is that the pair of you are here, rather than at the Shinsengumi headquarters ready to deal with the attack about to be made on the Bakufu.”
Okita blinks, pattern lost. Beside him, his superior’s back snaps up straight. “Oi – aren’t you one of the new recruits? Fujino!”
“Fujiwara,” corrects the man flatly, but Hijikata isn’t listening and rolls right on over him.
“Why the hell are you working for Okita? Okita, you’ve been getting your hooks into the new recruits this early? He’s hardly been around a month! That’s dirty.”
Okita turns to look at his superior, eyes narrowed, and pointedly strips the usual layers of blandness and irresponsibility from his voice. “He isn’t working for me.”
“Sorry, but I never had any intention of giving my loyalty to the Shinsengumi,” admits Fujiwara. Now that he’s been identified as one of the new recruits, Okita thinks he may indeed seem a bit familiar, but he never bothers paying attention to anyone below the fourth tier. “My sole job was to decoy you two from headquarters on the required date.”
“This is a pretty nice story you two’ve cooked up, but I liked the bomb better. It’s hard to feel urgency about a bunch of corrupt officials. So why don’t you just let me go already, and I’ll pretend it was suspenseful. It’s a good deal. Fujino, I’ll even give you a three minute head-start. That’s pretty generous.”
“I told you, I’m not working for Captain Okita,” says Fujiwara, eyebrows twitching.
“And I told you, I’m not falling for this again,” growls Hijikata, losing his patience and straining against the chains.
It’s a pity, thinks Okita as Fujiwara slams his bokutou into Hijikata’s head, the impact cracking the vice-commander’s skull back into the wall hard enough that Okita can hear the ugly sound of flesh and bone crushing against concrete, that yet again no one will believe him when he tells them this is all Hijikata’s fault.
There’s no need to worry about Hijikata; the man’s a demon, after all, and in any case Okita can’t stand him, so why bother? He’s not particularly worried about the Bakufu, either – they sold out a long time ago, and even the Shinsengumi is aware of it, although they pretend not to be.
What Okita is worried about is the fact that if left to themselves to fix this mess his men are going to screw it up, and that will mean a lot of paperwork. And even when Hijikata wakes up, with the unreasonable grudge he’ll inevitably hold he probably won’t let Okita push it off on him.
So Okita breaks the glass cover of his watch’s face by slamming it with calculated force against the raised corner of his manacle where the two halves join, and picks up the biggest shard. And, settling down for the long haul, begins the painful and tedious process of prying out the pin from the manacle’s hinges.
It’s a long time before Hijikata stirs; Okita has splintered two of the shards of glass, one in the flesh of his index finger, and pried the pin out only a hair’s breadth.
It’s a small movement, just a twitch of his fingers and a shift in his breathing habits, but in an otherwise empty cell it’s the equivalent of a shout. Okita continues working at the manacle.
A few moments later, Hijikata opens his eyes, twisting to lie on his back with his arms at odd angles above him. “Nn – ‘s happen?” His words are slow and slurred and fragmented. Okita glances down at him, and sees that his eyes are completely unfocused.
“You were wrong,” he says, going back to his work.
“S’go?”
“Unfortunately. You know, Hijikata-san, if you’re going to goad your captors, you could at least try to avoid having your head bashed in. I’m going to have to fill in a lot of paperwork.” The sharp side of the glass fragment slices another cut in the pad of his already-bloody thumb; he makes a face.
“Where …” Hijikata shifts in an uncoordinated, heavy movement, head lolling to face Okita. “S’go?” He asks, as if he’s just seen him.
Okita pauses, glances down. Hijikata groans, rolls further to lie on his side, and begins to retch.
Okita begins to think they may have more problems than he had bargained on.
He’s wondering how much longer it’ll be before he has to start using his teeth, wonders if he can pull his lips back far enough for that to be effective. His fingers are slick with blood, and the pin isn’t noticeably further out. And Hijikata has been falling into longer silences.
Okita frowns, and kicks Hijikata in the shin again. The vice-commander starts, and mutters something about taking a bath.
It’s become clear that Hijikata’s concussion is serious. Normally that wouldn’t be a problem, but normally they wouldn’t be chained to a wall while across the city some idiot radicalists race to bring down the government.
Of course, he doesn’t need Hijikata to escape or to stop the rabid bombers. He can do both those things very competently – or will be able to as soon as he pulls the damn pins out of his manacles. The problem is that he’s going to have to do something about Hijikata.
Okita has absolutely nothing against kicking a man when he’s down – or, for that matter, shooting him with an RPG when he’s down. If he’s down it’s his own damn fault, and if he’s too slow to dodge he deserves what’s coming to him, even if it’s coming on the head of a gunpowder-fuelled rocket. The fact that Hijikata is technically his friend and definitely his superior makes no difference to his feelings – in fact, if anything it enhances them. It’s been his ambition for years to see Hijikata walk into disaster on his own two feet.
While Okita does feel a certain sense of fulfilment, he can only believe that his overall lack of satisfaction is due to the fact that rather than remaining a spectator to Hijikata’s downfall, the bastard had to drag him along.
With his watch broken and no window, Okita can’t tell how much time has passed. All he knows is that he’s down to his last shard of glass, his fingers look like the corpse of the victim in a slasher film, and he has only managed to lever the pin approximately three millimetres out of its hinge.
Next to him, Hijikata groans and rolls his head to stare at Okita. His eyes are dull like milk tea, his posture horrendous. Okita ignores him, just as he has for the past however-long-it’s-been.
Hijikata makes a sound that might be one of surprise, and tries to sit up. He ends up toppling over to lean against Okita; Okita raises his elbow in preparation for deployment without looking away from the manacle.
“Mitsuba?” says Hijikata, sounding extremely puzzled.
Okita goes very stiff. Stops fidgeting with the glass, stops wrinkling his eyebrows, stops breathing.
“Why’re you here?” Hijikata’s slurring his words, head lolling on Okita’s shoulder.
Okita looks down very slowly. Hijikata is staring up at him from beneath his mop of hair, dark brows furrowed. His eyes track from Okita’s face to his hands, paused above his chest in the act of prying at the manacle’s pin.
Like a drunk reaching for the double of a bottle, Hijikata’s hand extends shakily and grasps first at air, then at Okita’s wrist. He catches hold of the hand Okita has been using to pry with and pulls it over to examine it with a ridiculously child-like intensity.
“The hell’d you do?” mumbles the vice-captain. Okita allows him to unfold his fingers, watches curiously as Hijikata carefully regards the bloody pad of each. “Careless.”
Okita’s fingers twitch involuntarily as his eyes harden. You should have told her to be careful, he wants to say. You should have told her you would care if she got hurt. What the fuck good did pretending you didn’t care do her?
But he doesn’t. He lets Hijikata suck the blood from his fingers, tongue soft and warm, and then clumsily bandage them with strips from his cravat before drifting off again into semi-unconsciousness with Okita’s shoulder as his pillow. Doesn’t say anything to break the illusion.
Because right now, for Hijikata, Mitsuba is still alive. And Okita knows what it is to want that, more than anything.
And also because, when they get out of here, Okita will be able to mock his boss for years.
Okita picks up the last shard of glass, and begins again.
The door swings open with a creak. Hijikata, lying on his side like the lazy bastard he is, doesn’t look up. Okita watches as Fujiwara crosses the floor, smiling.
“Good news,” he announces, pulling a knife from his sleeve. “We have just invaded the Bakufu compound. Which means you’ve served your spare purpose as back-up hostages.” He steps over to Okita, blade raised.
Okita smiles, and watches Fujiwara blanch.
Between his teeth is the pin to the manacles.
“So I used the attacker’s cell phone to alert Squads One and Two, and then proceeded on foot to the target myself,” says Okita, sitting in front of Kondou-san with his report at his side. “And we were able to subdue the terrorists without any major damage.”
“And Toushi?”
“Yamazaki called an ambulance for him.”
“Why didn’t you?” asks Kondou-san, frowning in vague confusion.
“The battery died,” lies Okita immediately, with a straight face. Kondou-san’s confusion disappears, and he nods firmly.
“Ah. And this is all in your report?”
Okita glances down at the single piece of paper and then back up again, smiling angelically. “More or less, sir.”
“Alright. You should go rest, Sougo. Make sure to keep your hands clean! Don’t piss on them!”
“I’ll keep that in mind, Kondou-san.”
Okita rises, passes Kondou-san his report, and steps out.
The good news is, with Hijikata in the hospital for a week, his report will be approved by Kondou-san himself, who never actually reads what he stamps. Which means Okita won’t have to rewrite it.
This, he considers, is perfectly reasonable. After all, it was all Hijikata’s fault.
