A Welcome Wagon of One - Chapter 4

A Gumi Reloaded Story

Written by Legalronin (Okita and other supporting characters)

and MightyMightyMunson (Saitoh and other supporting characters)

"It is a curious thing, watching a strong man fall to pieces."

― Jodi Picoult, My Sister's Keeper

This story takes place directly after Release to the Wild.

After this story, the two Mibu Wolves split up. Saitoh's story continues in The Wolf at Work, Part II (or It's Hard to Keep a Dead Woman Down). Okita ends up at Genzai Independent Living Center (and has no idea the madness he's stepping into..) in the story, The First Day.

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Saitoh

Saitoh snagged some more noodles, slurping them thoughtfully as Okita huffed and puffed but thankfully didn't knock the table down.

I am so confused…

"Feh. You were an addlepated moron before you lost your marbles, so not much has changed," Saitoh muttered, as he resolutely set his chopsticks down and finished the coffee in his cup. Since the normal lunch tsunami of noodle crazed customers was still a trickle, there was time and a well needed measure of privacy to continue on with the conversation.

"You never met Tokio," Saitoh said quietly (not in this life or the last one). In the Meiji Era, his best friend had already succumbed to Tuberculosis long before Saitoh and Tokio had married and in this one, Okita had been missing and presumed dead when their paths had crossed again.

"We knew each other many years ago and were only recently reacquainted."

Saitoh Gatotsu'd a hapless tempura battered prawn, drowned it in dipping sauce and then ate it, chewing slowly as he wondered if the strange continuance of past lives meeting present was fate or karma as he let his friend wait.

(Once these questions are answered, the heavier and harder discussion would be required.)

He still wasn't sure how to put into words the magnitude of loss that his friend had experienced, and now in light of his memory loss would experience again, but he was determined that he would honor his promise as best he could, just as Okita would do the same if the situation was reversed.

"Is that it?" That's all you're going to say?"

Enjoying the man's discomfort, Saitoh merely shrugged as another prawn met the same fate.

"What more is there to be said?"

In hindsight, Saitoh would concede that his response had been, perhaps, not quite the answer Okita had been looking for. Before Saitoh could pour himself another cup of coffee, the scrawny bastard had taken the coffee pot hostage and was demanding additional details.

"Goddammit, Souji, give me the coffee pot!" Saitoh growled, half tempted to drag the impertinent little shit back to the rehabilitation facility and dump him onto Kinoshita's lap.

Okita coyly jiggled the handle of the hostage, sending the slightly bitter aroma of strongly brewed coffee wafting upwards and into his friend's sensitive nose before pouring himself a cup, "Start talking, Tinkerbell, or you'll not get a drop more."

"You'll pay for this, Brat," Saitoh warned, his narrow eyes glittering with malice.

"I'll have coffee in my system, so I don't care," Okita lifted the cup up, as in salute, took a sip and then sighed with contentment.

"Remember that when I abandon you at some third-rate sewage treatment plant rather than the independent living center," Saitoh groused and then began to speak.

"A few weeks ago Tokio was transferred here from the main DOJ office in Yokohama, courtesy of her idiot brother," Saitoh's face darkened as he thought about the details of the transfer and how the head of the national department of justice had sent his sister on a mission with far too little support and training, a mistake that had nearly resulted in Tokio being murdered less than two weeks after arriving on her new assignment.

The irony that the suicide mission was the catalyst for bringing Tokio back into his life was not lost on him. Still of two minds where Morinusuke was concerned, Saitoh wasn't sure whether to hug the man (extremely unlikely) or hit him squarely in the face (more likely, yet strategically unsound) for being such a dumbass, so he settled for a shrug and decided that his response upon meeting the attorney would be somewhere in between.

"We ran into each other at a café and ended up in a gun fight with several syndicate members and a certain red-haired cop killer you may have seen in the news recently," Saitoh smirked as he described the pitched battle and the parts that he and Tokio had played, "you would have appreciated her skills."

He sure the hell did and in more ways than one.

"I know that I'll regret saying this, but you're somewhat to blame for my pending matrimonial state," Saitoh said slyly as he picked up his chopsticks and snagged a perfectly battered piece of okra, "it's a damn shame that you stole my coffee or I would have seriously considered inviting you to the wedding."

Okita

Okita poured himself a second cup of coffee, and gave his "best friend" a flat look. The bastard was having fun. He was enjoying having the upper hand, but he supposed he should be grateful, giving out personal information was not Saitou's strong suit.

That didn't mean that Okita was going to forgive him anytime soon. Okita picked up his chopsticks, broke them cleanly this time, and stole the sweet potato straight from Saitou's chopsticks in a move that was impossible to see. That should remind the man of whom he was dealing with.

"Let me see if I understand," Okita took a bite and chewed slowly before continuing, "you met her days ago?" Okita studied his stolen piece of tempura, and threw his eyes up at the other man, "She's pregnant isn't she?"

Then in a lazy drawl he said, "I don't know if I want to be part of something so . . . indecent."

Okita chuckled, "Who would have imagined Saitou Hajime having a slip like that. I am sure you appreciated her skills . . ."

Before Saitou could take his chopsticks and stab Okita through the throat he quickly added, "Mah mah, I am only kidding. But seriously, what's the rush? How is that my fault?"

Despite what he said Okita was sure this wasn't a spur of the moment decision, that wasn't Saitou. Of that he knew. The way the man spoke, the woman was even more proof that this wasn't a simple fling that had forced him to take responsibility. Was she really pregnant?

Okita finished his sweet potato, and began eating his noodles. Saitou was getting married, the cubs were alive and practically grown, he himself had been missing a year, his sisters were well … Despite the gap filling, it only made Okita angry and bitter. It did little to really answer the larger questions. And then there was the aching hole in his chest, a premonition that there was more to come.

"When can I see the boys? Can I meet her?" He didn't look at brother, instead choosing to focus on his food, after all he was still an unknown.

Saitoh

She's pregnant, isn't she?

Saitoh laughed. As laughs went, his was rather harsh, dry and sounded as if a wolf was coughing up something distasteful. Still, it was a laugh and it counted, especially considering how rarely he did it.

"Moron. I've not slept with her yet," Saitoh said drolly. He'd only admit such a thing to his best friend, "and when it comes to indecency, you've been happily floating down the gutter of life since I met you, so you have no place to talk."

"As for the rush…" Saitoh's laugh died in the back of his throat as he thought about all Tokio had been through in such a short time. He looked down at the table for a moment as the all too familiar feelings of white-hot fury and the deepest fear he'd known as a man did battle with one another, "there's a syndicate hit out on her, Souji, one of the worst I've seen since joining the force. When I ran into her at the café, she was already being followed by sex-traffickers. Less than 36 hours later, a car bomb nearly took her out and her home was similarly rigged to go up the minute she set foot on the property."

Saitoh looked up, steely determination fighting to rise above the fray, "I lost Yaso to those fucking syndicate bastards and I'll be damned if I lose Tokio as well. Besides," Saitoh snagged another piece of fried okra and ate it, "at the rate things are going on the force, she may end up outliving me, which isn't saying much."

He shrugged. There was no drama or pity in the statement, just cold hard facts. "If I end up getting killed in the line of duty, the boys need a parent, someone who loves them and would never view them as an unwanted burden so we're joining forces, quite literally, to even out the odds a bit."

Saitoh snagged the coffee pot back and poured himself a cup, pleased to see that he was getting most of the bitter dregs, "as for your complicity in this domestic adventure, I'm not sure if you remember or not, when we first met in the Army. We both experienced a strong sense of being re-acquainted rather than newly met. You had a bat shit crazy theory as to why but in time, it made sense. It's the same way with her, though more intense in nature."

Saitoh took a drink, savoring the acid-bitterness, "Since you and I haven't managed to strangle each other yet, despite you being a royal pain in the ass," he smirked and gave the man a quasi-salute with the cooling cup of Joe, "Tokio and I decided to go for it, while we had an opportunity to do so and will figure the rest out."

When can I see the boys? Can I meet her?

Saitoh flicked Okita on the forehead, "Idiot. How can you come to the wedding if you haven't already met the bride?" His friend for all his wild and wooly ways could be rather thick at times, "as for the boys, the sooner the better, perhaps tomorrow if you feel up to it and are confident you won't tear the house down around you."

Okita

Okita lips quirked into a true smile as his friend laughed. It was a good moment, and one oddly filled with peace. However, his smile turned sly when Saitou admitted to his current celibacy. He said nothing though, instead choosing to give his friend a meaningful look.

His smile quickly turned into a frown as he continued to listen and as he finished his noodles. He gave one final slurp before sighing in contentment. He threw his head back and looked up at the worn wooden ceiling, crossed his arms, and said, "You won't die just yet. You're too damn stubborn."

"Plus, you have me." He straightened up in his seat and looked his friend in the eyes, "You're not alone. Tell me what you need."

Then with a smile, "You'll have to explain that more fully one day. Our first meeting in the army but for now . . . " He nodded and left it at that. "I will of course be at your disposal tomorrow."

He would have nodded or made some comment about bringing the house down, but suddenly his body was bent forward over the table with wracking coughs. As his lungs tried to escape his too thin body, he snagged back the coffee pot, but it only made him cough more and dribble coffee on to the table.

Saitou rose and began to beat his friend on the back.

"Ow!" Cough. "Stop that!" Cough. "You're not h-helping!"

After a particularly rough pat, "Consider it pay back for stealing my coffee."

Okita's cough finally gave way, and he glared at the taller man, "You won't have to worry about the syndicate! I'll kill you myself."

Saitou resumed his seat, "Feh. It won't be the first time you tried or the last."

"You're just lucky I don't want to explain to the boys how I killed their father."

Then cheering up, he leaned forward, "Oy, what about the last time we met?"

Saitoh

"You will see a doctor about that damn cough of yours," Saitoh said severely as he poured Okita a glass of water and shoved it towards the idiot in respiratory distress, "I'm of half a mind to brain you with the coffee pot, but will refrain as it will waste what little coffee is remaining."

Glaring at his thick-skulled friend, Saitoh grabbed a napkin and started scrubbing at the table. There were dribbles on it and he hated dribbles.

Once the table was dribble free and Okita wasn't huffing and wheezing like an overtasked yak, Saitoh leaned back in back in his chair.

"The last time we met was on a Friday evening, about a week before you disappeared. In your infinite wisdom, you decided that it was a good idea to try and set me up on a blind date," Saitoh's expression was sour enough to curdle tofu, "to say things didn't go well is an understatement of epic proportions."

For the next few minutes, Saitoh recounted the disastrous evening. He'd gone to the now burned out and bullet ridden Sunshine Café, looking for Okita and had found instead a woman waiting for him. She'd been kind, a widow who had lost her husband a few years prior, and pretty. His response to her had been anything but. He'd verbally savaged the poor woman, using language that would have made a seasoned soldier wince and in anger, he'd swept the café booth with his arm, sending everything crashing on the floor and shattering.

There were few aspects of Saitoh's conduct that he could honestly say he was ashamed of, but the memory of terrifying an innocent woman, one who was no stranger to the loss of losing a spouse, and sending her running from the café, weeping, was right at the top, second only to how he'd treated Okita in the aftermath.

"You came to the house, later that night, mad as hell for the way I'd treated your friend," Saitoh said flatly, "by the time you let yourself in I was thoroughly intoxicated and spoiling for a fight."

His recounting of the fight was painfully accurate and pitiless. Initially, Okita had tried to calm things down and reason with him. Far too drunk to engage in polite conversation or critical thinking, Saitoh had attacked his friend with such savagery that Okita had been forced to defend himself, until he too lost his temper and had returned blow for blow and then some.

The fight, as hard and brutal as either of them had experienced in the course of their violent careers, had resulted in a living room and kitchen that resembled a war zone, he and Okita suffering a number of minor injuries and a couple of serious ones, and worst of all, the destruction of a friendship, one that Saitoh hadn't fully appreciated until it was gone.

"When I sobered up, it was too late," Saitoh admitted, regret and shame over what had happened palpable, "a few days after the fight, you disappeared on your way home from your shift. Watanabe was able to pull security footage of you entering the elevator and going down two floors, then the cameras went out, not only in the elevator, but the whole police complex as well."

Saitoh shook his head, "forensics scrubbed every square millimeter of that elevator for evidence so that we could find you. Considering that the elevator was destroyed and covered with blood, hair and a few knocked out teeth, they had plenty to work with. DNA belonging to four men, three with syndicate ties and all with military backgrounds equivalent to ours, was found. The only evidence you left behind was your briefcase, mobile and wallet, all fully intact as if you'd merely forgotten to take them with you."

Saitoh finished his coffee, now cold, and tried to ignore the all-too-familiar burning sensation that was creeping up the back of his throat, "You put up one hell of a fight, but in the end, it didn't matter. You and the perpetrators of the assault vanished, as if you'd been all swallowed up. Watanabe spent months tracking dead ends online. Yamamoto pulled every favor he had on the streets trying to cough up any leads and Itou worked the legal channels, and to this day, still holds the record for search warrant requests in association with your disappearance. Hell, there were even a handful of meter maids who were hellbent on helping out."

Okita's loss had not only been a deep personal blow, but one that shook the Criminal Investigations Department and many other divisions in the DOJ. Okita had been liked and trusted and had served many times as a bridge between departments when ego and infighting threatened to derail an investigation.

"The active investigation ended three months after you vanished for a complete and utter lack of evidence. Karen and I kept looking for you even after a death certificate had been issued in absentia."

Saitoh didn't mention that Tsutomu had tried to help as well and had tried to sneak out one night armed with a flashlight and the toy bokken Okita had bought the child for his birthday so that he could find his missing uncle and bring him back home. Hearing his boy sob himself to sleep for months had added anguish to the already nightmarish reality of losing his friend who'd fought so hard to keep Saitoh's sanity and family together in the aftermath of Yaso's death and his descent into alcoholism.

"Your sisters did everything possible to find you as well. They hired PI's, took out agency adds. Hell, the nutty one kept going to some wild-eyed sham of a psychic who claimed she could contact you from the great beyond," Saitoh's voice became rough as he thought about Okita's older sisters. They'd been frantic, the eldest nearly struck down with grief as it became clear that Okita wasn't coming back and was likely dead.

"They asked me to take care of what you left behind," Saitoh said quietly. He'd talked more in the last half hour than he usually did over the course of a few days, "I packed up your belongings. There's a box I brought in the car and the rest of your things are in storage at my house. There's a bank account in your name that I set up…just in case."

Saitoh looked over at his friend, wondering what Okita thought of him after such a recounting, "I can't undo what occurred and refuse to make excuses for my appalling conduct. Even if you don't remember any of this, your instincts do, somehow, and your actions this morning were more than justified."

Okita

Okita waved away Saitou's concern through the wheezing, "I think I have an appointment, or I have to set one up when I get to the living center. Something like that . . ."

He grinned as he gulped down the water, but any cheer he had felt earlier disappeared as the atmosphere in the shop changed drastically.

He could tell that whatever came next was not going to be easy for his friend to talk about, and as he listened he could see why.

As Saitou spoke, Okita showed no emotion. Instead he sat back with his arms crossed, his fingers digging into his biceps, the tempura temporarily forgotten. For his part, he remembered nothing, but he could imagine what a fight like that would have been like. It wouldn't have been pretty.

The idea that his friend would have frightened a woman was further proof of how badly Yaso's death had affected the man. As if Okita really needed more proof, but it also showed how . . . amazing? miraculous? impossible? hard to accept? Saitou's impending marriage to Tokio was.

It also made him extremely curious to meet the woman, and he wondered what the boys thought of their soon to be mother.

At least, the man was making progress in the right direction even if it was rushed. He was daring to hope and that was something.

Okita hated that he had been gone, that his disappearance had caused such a disturbance. He narrowed his eyes, he had disappeared without a trace, that was not something just anyone could pull off. He could feel the anger start to boil, his gripped tightened as he thought, Dr. Sinister, how did you do it? Why?

His heart broke as he heard about not only his sister's efforts but also everyone's. Whoever had done this would pay. Right now, his only lead was Dr. Sinister.

He wondered whether he should reach out to his sisters. Part of him wanted to wait until he understood more of what was going on, but the other part wanted to ease their suffering, his too if he was honest.

It was time for him to address his friend. He could tell that it wasn't a pleasant memory, and it went without saying that whatever feelings Saitou had used to push Okita away they were now long gone.

He wouldn't have picked him up otherwise. Okita didn't think less of the man, he couldn't and wouldn't.

Still what he said was, "You're paying for dinner. Even if I have money." His voice was level and gave nothing away. "I suppose as far as apologies goes that's the best I'll get out of you."

Saitoh

"You stole my coffee and still have a semi-functioning throat," Saitoh growled, "if that's not an act of contrition then I don't know what is."

"It's nothing compared to bearing your company."

Saitoh smirked.

Okita ran his hand over his too-thin face. "There's a woman you haven't brought up, isn't there?"

The smirk shattered and a pall settled over the small table.

Saitoh sat there for a moment, then stiffly stood, grabbed the nearly empty coffee pot and walked back to the counter where the nitwit was hiding and the cook was enjoying a pre-lunch rush cigarette break.

Quiet words were exchanged. The cook nodded and the nitwit hurried behind the counter and grabbed something.

A moment later, Saitoh returned to the still slightly dingy table with a full pot of fresh coffee. He filled Okita's cup, then carefully set the coffee pot by his friend. When he sat back down, Okita was eyeing him, clearly worried, his too-thin face paling.

"Yes, there is," Saitoh said quietly, "her name is Arina. She was your wife."

Okita's reaction was not quite what Saitoh had expected, but was gut wrenching nonetheless.

"She was a doctor, a damn fine one, and one of the best women either of us have ever known," Saitoh paused, then forced himself to continue, "she died six years ago, Souji, shortly after giving birth to your daughter, Aoi."

Okita

Okita felt his body turn cold as his heart wrenched painfully. For a moment, he couldn't breathe. He had had a wife. A wife he couldn't really remember, a wife that had died giving birth to his child. He couldn't breathe.

Suddenly the air came rushing back to him threatening to choke him. He smiled, humorlessly, "I was married?"

He, the flirt, had been married. It seemed almost impossible.

He tried to remember the woman that he had seen earlier in a flash memory, the one he had danced with, the woman that he must have shared a life with. All he could remember was disappointing her as she asked him to join her on the other side while he lay unconscious in the rehab center.

But, how was it possible that he hadn't even remembered her name? That he couldn't remember more? He remembered Saitou. He remembered the cubs. Yet, his own wife had disappeared with the rest of his memories. Not just her but apparently a daughter as well.

In a voice that did not sound like his he asked, "And . . ?" He paused, unsure, even more afraid of the answer, "And my daughter?"

He ran his hands against his forearms, not really aware that he was doing it. A wife . . . a daughter . . .

Slowly anger started to replace his shock, and his eyes flashed. His chest constricted painfully, and for the first time in months he thought maybe this was all too much. How could he not remember?

Saitoh

A few minutes earlier…

"Oh, no…" Kurihara groaned, "what does he want this time?"

Irritated that his sister's cousin's nephew was interrupting what would certainly be the last smoking break before the lunch rush, the cook glanced up at the kid, of half a mind to tell him off. The reprimand died on his lips when he saw Saitoh coming back to the service counter, specially the expression on the police officer's narrow face.

Instinctively, his focus shifted to the other police officer, a good man that he'd thought dead. Okita was sitting rigidly at the table. He was pale. Half-starved by the looks of it and frightened.

"Oi, what is it?"

While the cook had many patrons he was fond of, very few of them had been around for as long as the two men sitting at the back of the table and none of them had been through so much. Both Okita and Saitoh had helped him on more than one occasion, twice when his noodle shop had been burglarized and once when a syndicate was trying to force him into paying exorbitant "protection" fees.

"Ojisan, I need some more coffee," Saitoh said quietly, trying to come up with a strategy, struggling to think of a way to lessen the blow.

"Sure thing, Kid," the cook motioned for Kurihara to go get one of the pots what were freshly brewing, "what's wrong with Okita? He looks like shit and I swear, when I tried talking to him it was as if he didn't even recognize me."

"He doesn't," Saitoh said tersely. Quickly, as there was no time to spare and no place for histrionics, the Major quickly filled the cook in on what he needed to know and why his assistance was required.

"Oh, shit," The cigarette dropped from the cook's half opened mouth, "not even his wife?"

Saitoh shook his head.

"Oh, shit," The cook motioned for Kurihara to hurry and bring the pot of coffee over. Gods, the kid really was a nitwit.

"Here," he handed the steaming coffee pot over to the tall officer.

"Thank you," Saitoh said and turned, walking back towards the table where Okita was sitting.

(Kami-sama three times over!)

The cook frowned and wiped his hands on his apron. He thought about the matter for a moment, then ambled out from behind the service counter and over to the restaurant door where he turned off the neon "OPEN" sign and turned the dingy laminated hours placard over so the read, "WE'RE CLOSED".

It wasn't much. Hell, it wasn't near enough for what was happening, but it was the best he could do. He'd lost his wife to cancer three years prior and even with foreknowledge of her impending death, the blow he'd suffered when she'd left him alone for the first time in nearly fifty years, was still heavy on his shoulders and hard to bear more often than not. Both Saitoh and Okita knew what it was like to lose their better halves. He'd seen them go through it, suffer, grieve and in Saitoh's case, damn well nearly kill himself.

(Dammit, it's not fair…) Life in New Meiji rarely was.

Ambling back to the kitchen, the cook stole a glance over at the small table in the back of the noddle house. Dimly lit, the old table and two chairs who had seen much better days were being witness to a conversation that shouldn't be happening in the first place.

Okita's back was to him, so all the cook could see was Saitoh speaking quietly. His face was set and hard, posture as stiff as a board, but the acerbic cop's eyes were sad. The fact that the proud man had even asked for help was serious in and of itself.

The cook looked away as the memory of seeing the boys come into the restaurant for the first time, wearing military fatigues, hungry and thrilled to be on leave. Another memory, a happy one, of Okita bringing his sweet wife in for noodles. Arina had craved his garlic shrimp noodles throughout her pregnancy and Okita had joyously made sure that the love of his life had noodles coming out of her ears. He'd been so proud, so damn excited to be a father.

One last memory demanded recognition. Okita had come here after. After he'd lost everything. His wife. His baby. He'd come alone, white faced and barely able to walk and had sat down, put his head in his hands and sobbed. Saitoh had come in a few minutes later, face haggard and sat down by his friend, his expression and posture nearly identical now as it had been before.

The cook swore and brushed his gnarled hands over his eyes. They were stinging. Perhaps from the chile peppers he'd been cutting up? Yes, that had to be it.

"What's wrong?" Kurihara asked.

"Nothing, Kid. Least nothin' we can do. C'mon," the cook muttered as he took the boy by the arm and led him into the kitchen, so that the two men left behind had a measure of privacy.

And my daughter?

There was a reason that every police squadron had an officer trained and equipped to handle the horrendous conversations that were a part of the work that Saitoh and Okita had dedicated their lives to. Okita had been the crisis officer on his team and had always shown skill and compassion when addressing the next of kin. Okita knew how to comfort, how to stabilize and de-escalate. Hell, the brat was even was comfortable giving hugs, for fuck's sake.

There was also a reason that Saitoh had NEVER, not once, been assigned to this area of specialization. He wasn't kind. Lacked any sense of timing or sensitivity. Avoided hugging like it was one of the more voracious STD's.

(I shouldn't be doing this..) Karen would do a better job. Tokio would know what to say and how to say it. Hell, the nitwit who'd scampered off into the kitchen would likely have more sense than he did at the moment.

Saitoh hesitated for a moment, then reached out and put his hand on Okita's shoulder.

"She died. Three days later." He had been there beside Okita when the wrenching decision had been made. In his grief, Okita had not been able to bear watching his daughter be taken off life support, so Saitoh had stayed in the room, bearing witness to a desperately short life ending while Yaso had stayed outside with Souji and held the man as he wept, his heart completely broken.

Saitoh tightened his grip on Okita, as if it would help. It wouldn't. Nothing would.

"Near the end of the pregnancy, Arina developed severe eclampsia. There was no warning, Souji, nothing you or anyone could have done to prevent what happened. She suffered a massive stroke and then a heart attack not long after being admitted to the hospital."

He continued, hating that the rest of what he had to say was even worse, "Aoi hung on for three days. She was a fighter. You fought to keep her here but she'd suffered severe oxygen deprivation and it was too much."

"I'm sorry," Saitoh's voice broke.

Okita

Okita wanted to snap, hurry the hell up. The pause before Saitoh answered, was unbearable. Then Saitoh placed a hand on his shoulder, and he knew the answer wasn't good. Okita gritted his teeth, but nothing could prepare him for what he heard. He knew before the words had been spoken, but hearing them made it all so final.

The baby had died. HIS baby.

And he didn't remember. He didn't remember what must have been a terrible time in his life. It felt like such a dishonor to the lives that had been lost.

"I'm sorry," Saitoh's voice broke.

". . . I see," was all Okita could say. They sat there in silence for several long minutes.

Suddenly, he stood up unable to sit any longer. He walked to the entrance, saw the car, and was about to step outside when he turned on his heels and marched into the tiny bathroom in the back. He said nothing to his friend and brother.

Okita shut the door and leaned his forehead against it.

The bathroom smelled strongly of cleaning agents, but he didn't care. It was so small that there was barely room for the western toilet. He didn't care.

He couldn't sit there, and face Saitoh. Face the expectations of what he should be feeling.

He should be devastated, he should be heartbroken, and he was . . . in a way. Mostly though he was ashamed, frustrated, and nothing could fill the void.

He went through every memory he had, every dream he had had. How could he have forgotten Arina? The baby Aoi?

No, all he remembered was the war. How could he forget those that had meant so much. He knew he must have loved them. He heard his heart racing and felt tears threaten to spill, but he ignored it. Instead he focused on the anger that was threatening to engulf him. It was easier.

He breathed in deeply, and wished he hadn't. The smell in the bathroom was that toxic.

Okita allowed himself a few more seconds to grieve. He was sure of one thing, he was no user. If he had not turned to drugs six years ago after such a loss then there was no way he turned to drugs a year ago. He backed away from the door, and pulled up his sleeves.

He ran his hands against the scars. He still had a family. He had had a wife and daughter. Tears started to stream down his face. Losing them again was nothing compared to the shame of not remembering them.

He sighed, went to the tiny sink next to the toilet, and washed his face. He took one look in the mirror, shook his head, and walked out of the bathroom resuming his seat at the table once more.

At least there was coffee.

Saitoh

(I wonder what's going on?)

Kurihara couldn't figure out for the life of him why the noodle house was closed. The lunch hour was nearly upon them, the busiest (and most lucrative) time of day.

(There's nothing happening!)

Not wanting to incur the notice of the tall policeman, the new waiter didn't cross the threshold of the kitchen and the serving area behind the counter. He was curious, sure, but not entirely stupid.

(I wonder what those crazy men are talking about?)

Clearly, it was of little import as there were no raised voices, nor signs of anger, happiness, or anything else. Kurihara was surprised that the tall officer was the one doing most of the talking, and that wasn't saying much. The shorter man, who seemed a far nicer fellow than his companion (even if he struggled with the basics of drinking anything in liquid form, bless him) was silent, save for what appeared to be two words and then a long period of silence afterward.

The young man couldn't make out what those two words were, nor could he figure out why the shorter man jumped to his feet, wandered over to the entrance as he if was going to leave the noodle shop and then turned and walked back and went into the bathroom.

(Did they have a fight?)

He'd never seen such a strange argument if they were. Then of course, he'd not ever dealt with such strange men.

The man the cook had called Saitoh glanced back when the other man, Okita, if he remembered correctly shut the bathroom door. For a moment Kunisha thought he saw some emotion flicker across the severe man's narrow face. Perhaps it was worry, perhaps something akin to sorrow? Kurihara wasn't sure and whatever it was that the very tall man was feeling, it vanished faster than the noodle house's most popular meal, leaving behind a severe, unpleasant expression that the waiter felt was far more appropriate for a jerk who'd proved himself not only to be rude and demanding, but lacking any sort of sympathy.

(Dammit!)

While he admired the stoic manner in which Okita took that awful news, his friend's reaction was 180 degrees from what it had been six years before. Saitoh suspected it was because Okita was clearly suffering from god knows what sort of trauma, but he wasn't sure and there was absolutely no point in speculating.

It was done.

He'd done his duty.

Saitoh clenched his fists, resisting the urge to punch the table in frustration.

In the course of under an hour, he'd filled in as many blanks for Okita as he could, many of which had occurred during a time in his life when he'd been anything but a masterful man. Describing their alcohol fueled fight, one that occurred days before his former police partner had disappeared, had shown him to be the antithesis of a good friend. The confession that he'd lost his children, failed to protect his wife and rather than mourning her death honorably had become a degenerate alcoholic proved that he'd lost himself and his honor along the way.

Okita on the other hand had faced an unimaginable degree of loss squarely, not only now, but six years before, when he'd somehow managed to survive a loss of equal magnitude and retain his sanity.

To add insult to Okita's injury, Saitoh was incensed that he'd failed to properly retain his composure when confirming what he suspected Okita already knew, that his wife and daughter were dead. His friend had needed strength in that moment and had received anything but.

As Saitoh replayed the conversation in his mind, he found that the discussion hadn't been a complete cluster. Not quite. Okita knew that Tsutomu and Tsuyoshi were still alive, that he had two sisters who loved him (even if one of them was batshit crazy just like her little brother). Saitoh had even confided to Okita things he'd never say to another human being regarding the woman he loved and would shortly be marrying.

Then, in what had been the most Okita-like response so far, his friend had assured him that he wasn't alone and that he'd help face down the dangers that threatened his family. Saitoh wished he would have had the presence of mind to let his friend know that the same held true for him, then shoved the regret away.

(Saying it doesn't mean a damn thing…)

Saitoh heard the bathroom door open, then shut quietly and very soft footfalls come back towards the small table where he was sitting.

(…a man's true intent is shown through his actions)

Saitoh had given Okita very little good to go by. He would rectify that, starting now.

Okita sat down quietly and took the cup of coffee Saitoh had poured and drank it.

Saitoh finished his glass of water. It did nothing to quench the fire that was eating away the back of his throat but the discomfort was immaterial.

Two more cups of coffee and a half assed joke later, Okita looked up at him. He appeared calm, as if they'd been discussing the batting averages of the pending New Meiji Samurai line up.

"I finally heard you say I'm sorry," Okita smiled.

It wasn't the first time Saitoh had said such a thing, but Okita's memory was nearly gone, leaving behind emptiness where the experiences of a well lived life and a friendship over a decade in the making once existed. In the end, it didn't matter. Moving forward and not looking back did.

"Enjoy the moment, Brat" Saitoh warned, "it won't happen again."

~FIN~

Notes from the Gumi Reloaded Writers

This story takes place directly after Release to the Wild.

After this story, the two Mibu Wolves split up. Saitoh's story continues in The Wolf at Work, Part II (or It's Hard to Keep a Dead Woman Down). Okita ends up at Genzai Independent Living Center (and has no idea the madness he's stepping into..) in the story, The First Day.

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Your friendly neighborhood fanfic writers,

MightyMightyMunson (writes Saitoh) and legalronin (writes Okita)

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