masturbatter (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
masturbatter) wrote2015-05-14 10:45 am
masturbatter) wrote2015-05-14 10:45 am
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Tajima's not normally this much of a night owl, not these days. With an infant in his charge, he takes his sleep where he can and rises early even when it's not enough. When Takeshi's home, his morning starts with lazy kisses and warm hands and ends with more of the same. When Takeshi's away...
Well, he ends up wandering aimlessly through the house, a ghost of his own creation.
It's not that he doesn't trust his husband to come home, or his familia to watch his back. Takeshi's capable - all of them are capable. They've been doing this a long time. They all know the risks and pitfalls. But knowing someone will probably come back alive is not the same as knowing they definitely will. There's no amount of trust that can erase every secret fear he doesn't think about until Takeshi's in his fresh-pressed suit and tie, that hooded look in his eyes as he steps out of their front door and into a world where Tajima can't follow. A world that, in all likelihood, will eventually claim him, one way or another.
So he paces through the lounge, and pokes his head into the fridge. He checks on Hanako's peacefully sleeping form for the umpteenth time. He double-checks his kit for the morning. He flips the tv on to a game replay and mutes it, doesn't even watch, watches the clock instead.
(It's been more than two weeks now. Surely he's allowed to start really worrying.)
The worst part is: He can't even call Takeshi. He's never given him his work cell number and Tajima won't ask. He understands that a phonecall at the wrong time could be life and death (probably death). He knows that Takeshi needs to focus, and their family is just a distraction - maybe an anchor, too, but definitely a distraction. You can't watch the crowd when you're in the batter's box. You can listen, and you can feel their presence, but you keep the eye on the ball and swing through. He understands that. And he understands that this tense frustration is what Takeshi goes through every time he watches Tajima play without being able to touch the game himself.
It's creeping up on 4am when the front door clicks, shudders, and slowly creeps open. There's a lead-cored baseball bat Tajima keeps hidden - Takeshi doesn't need to know about the young punks that broke in that one time; they've never come back, after all - and he twirls his fingers 'round the handle softly as he waits. It only takes three steps before he's putting it back and hurrying to the entry. Takeshi's post-mission step is distinctively weary, after all.
Tajima doesn't gasp when Takeshi finally stumbles into the wan light from the kitchen. He doesn't mention the bruises, the split lip; doesn't say anything about the way half his suit's in shreds, and the skin beneath it as well. He says, "Heya, handsome," and is rewarded with a tired grin he can press his kiss to. He tucks an arm around Takeshi's wincing waist and helps him slowly up the stairs and into the bathroom.
The shirt and jacket will go straight into the burn pile. Takeshi props himself on the wall to get rid of shoes and pants while Tajima runs a bath, throwing in a palmful of epsom salts and a sprinkling of antiseptic. Takeshi eases himself in with a wince and a sigh of thanks. "You should be getting this looked at professionally," Tajima says finally, gently sponging hot water onto his husband's battered back and cleaning blood and grime off.
"It's nothing that'll kill me before the morning," Takeshi says, too lightly, "I'll call Senpai then." He relaxes slowly, and Tajima can see the tension running off him with the water, until he's splayed fully against the side of the tub with his head against Tajima's chest. The bath is turning a brittle shade of pink. Tajima keeps washing, working cloth and hand tenderly over bruised flesh until Takeshi feels more solid under his touch.
He finally relents when he hears a soft snore. They've both got prunes for hands by now, and it takes some cajoling to convince Takeshi that bed is more comfortable, that they can cuddle properly there, but eventually his husband is up and moving, still sluggish and with a limp he hopes Ryohei can fix. Tajima towels him down and sets up some makeshift bandaging over the worst of his wounds. They go together to check on Hanako, and that's where the last of Takeshi's tension comes free. That's when he really comes home.
They settle into bed. Tajima's learned better than to be too solicitous of Takeshi's war wounds once he's patched them. They're both too exhausted to do much more than vaguely smoosh into each other, but it's enough. It's lazy kisses and warm hands, and it's home, and that's enough.
Well, he ends up wandering aimlessly through the house, a ghost of his own creation.
It's not that he doesn't trust his husband to come home, or his familia to watch his back. Takeshi's capable - all of them are capable. They've been doing this a long time. They all know the risks and pitfalls. But knowing someone will probably come back alive is not the same as knowing they definitely will. There's no amount of trust that can erase every secret fear he doesn't think about until Takeshi's in his fresh-pressed suit and tie, that hooded look in his eyes as he steps out of their front door and into a world where Tajima can't follow. A world that, in all likelihood, will eventually claim him, one way or another.
So he paces through the lounge, and pokes his head into the fridge. He checks on Hanako's peacefully sleeping form for the umpteenth time. He double-checks his kit for the morning. He flips the tv on to a game replay and mutes it, doesn't even watch, watches the clock instead.
(It's been more than two weeks now. Surely he's allowed to start really worrying.)
The worst part is: He can't even call Takeshi. He's never given him his work cell number and Tajima won't ask. He understands that a phonecall at the wrong time could be life and death (probably death). He knows that Takeshi needs to focus, and their family is just a distraction - maybe an anchor, too, but definitely a distraction. You can't watch the crowd when you're in the batter's box. You can listen, and you can feel their presence, but you keep the eye on the ball and swing through. He understands that. And he understands that this tense frustration is what Takeshi goes through every time he watches Tajima play without being able to touch the game himself.
It's creeping up on 4am when the front door clicks, shudders, and slowly creeps open. There's a lead-cored baseball bat Tajima keeps hidden - Takeshi doesn't need to know about the young punks that broke in that one time; they've never come back, after all - and he twirls his fingers 'round the handle softly as he waits. It only takes three steps before he's putting it back and hurrying to the entry. Takeshi's post-mission step is distinctively weary, after all.
Tajima doesn't gasp when Takeshi finally stumbles into the wan light from the kitchen. He doesn't mention the bruises, the split lip; doesn't say anything about the way half his suit's in shreds, and the skin beneath it as well. He says, "Heya, handsome," and is rewarded with a tired grin he can press his kiss to. He tucks an arm around Takeshi's wincing waist and helps him slowly up the stairs and into the bathroom.
The shirt and jacket will go straight into the burn pile. Takeshi props himself on the wall to get rid of shoes and pants while Tajima runs a bath, throwing in a palmful of epsom salts and a sprinkling of antiseptic. Takeshi eases himself in with a wince and a sigh of thanks. "You should be getting this looked at professionally," Tajima says finally, gently sponging hot water onto his husband's battered back and cleaning blood and grime off.
"It's nothing that'll kill me before the morning," Takeshi says, too lightly, "I'll call Senpai then." He relaxes slowly, and Tajima can see the tension running off him with the water, until he's splayed fully against the side of the tub with his head against Tajima's chest. The bath is turning a brittle shade of pink. Tajima keeps washing, working cloth and hand tenderly over bruised flesh until Takeshi feels more solid under his touch.
He finally relents when he hears a soft snore. They've both got prunes for hands by now, and it takes some cajoling to convince Takeshi that bed is more comfortable, that they can cuddle properly there, but eventually his husband is up and moving, still sluggish and with a limp he hopes Ryohei can fix. Tajima towels him down and sets up some makeshift bandaging over the worst of his wounds. They go together to check on Hanako, and that's where the last of Takeshi's tension comes free. That's when he really comes home.
They settle into bed. Tajima's learned better than to be too solicitous of Takeshi's war wounds once he's patched them. They're both too exhausted to do much more than vaguely smoosh into each other, but it's enough. It's lazy kisses and warm hands, and it's home, and that's enough.