Work Text:
Kunikida spares a glance down at his phone as the groans of pain start to peter out behind him. Thirty minutes behind schedule. This would’ve gone way faster if his flaky partner had shown up as planned.
He sighs, wiping down the stressed fabric of his vest before the creases can fully set in, and he sidesteps the body of the last unlucky smuggler who’d been forced to face the wrath of a mourning man.
The mourning man in question refers to him, of course. Kunikida is utterly heartbroken.
The police are planning to arrive in the next five minutes to make the official arrests, but Kunikida has no time to wait around if he wants to get in his full eight hours of rest. Especially considering his newfound state of car-lessness.
Three days ago, he was met with the devastating sight of an empty parking space—his parking space. Suspicion quickly festered after a thorough scan of the apartment’s parking lot proved fruitless. His precious car was nowhere on the premises. Only mildly panicked, Kunikida rushed into the security office demanding access to the surveillance footage overseeing the lot. He almost felt bad for startling the security guard half to death, but he made sure to compensate for her spilled cup of ramen tenfold after he got some answers.
Unfortunately, those answers never came. Analyzing the camera footage only cemented the fact that he was, indeed, a victim of grand theft auto.
So here he is on a Saturday night, car-less and perspiring a totally reasonable amount for having taken down seven men in a matter of minutes. Still, it’s uncomfortable as hell. His dress shirt is sticking tight against his torso and Kunikida once again mourns his lost car when he realizes he’ll have no air-conditioning for the foreseeable future.
Emerging from the alleyway, he finally begins his sad trek home. His earlier glance at the time proved that no public transportation would be available for the next several hours, and there is no way Kunikida is wasting his money on an overpriced Uber ride.
A warm gust of wind ruffles his already messy hair, and Kunikida reads it for what it is: the damning laughter of the ever-cruel universe. Such is the life of a car-less detective.
He allows himself one, self-pitying kick at a lone rock on the sidewalk before running through the night’s mission. It was another simple case of drug smuggling, which, fortunately for the ADA, had no connection to the Port Mafia. Less than ideal for the smugglers though, who were left with no backup and were likely just low-ranking gang members tossed to the streets. Not that Kunikida sympathizes with them—they chose this life for themselves.
He’s already planning his report for Monday, imagines the weight of his pen in his fingers as he jots down the main points in his journal, when—
Headlights? Kunikida tenses and keeps his head from instinctively turning towards the light. It isn’t all that strange for someone to be driving at this time, but this particular street isn’t busy enough to warrant any late-night visitors. There’s always the chance that the smuggling ring is smarter than Kunikida gives it credit for, he thinks with a twinge of annoyance. Maybe they have backup after all?
But when the car slows to a stop a few meters ahead of him, he practically sags with relief. A taxi!
Its garish yellow paint and red detailing shine like the Gates of Heaven beneath the flickering lamp post, and Kunikida wastes no time in running up to the passenger window.
“Hello! Excuse me!” He waves politely at the person behind the wheel and feels his tension slip away as they quickly roll down the window. “I know it’s late, but would you mind dropping me off at my apartment building? It’s just a few blocks over, by the port.”
The driver's jovial laugh is music to his ears. “Of course not! I’d be happy to.”
“Thank you so much, sir,” Kunikida rushes out, and doesn’t even feel self-conscious about bowing right in the middle of the sidewalk. “You have no idea how happy I am about your chance arrival.”
The man just laughs again, but instead of feeling mocked, Kunikida feels a familiar sense of comfort and camaraderie from the sound. He opens the door, settling into the seat before closing it shut with a satisfying click and double-checking the lock. “The apartments by the port, you said?”
“Yes,” Kunikida nods. A smile makes its way onto his face as the air conditioner washes over him. “Thank you again.”
“It’s my pleasure,” the man says, and though Kunikida can’t see his smile from behind his bushy gray beard, it’s easy to detect in his raspy voice. “Though it does make me wonder, what was a young man like you doing alone in the street?”
“Work,” Kunikida lets out a haggard sigh, pouring all of his frustrations from the day into that one breath. He catches the driver’s solemn nod out of the corner of his eye. “Same as you, I suppose.”
“Yep. It’s tough, keeping the midnight oil burning,” the man coughs softly as he shifts the car into drive and pulls into the main road once again. “But it’s not without its perks. Lots of interesting people, at this time of night.”
Kunikida hums in agreement. He wants to keep the conversation going to avoid seeming rude, especially towards this man who was kind enough to give him a ride, but his exhaustion is beginning to catch up with him and the low hum of the engine is doing nothing to help the growing weight of his eyelids.
Just as he’s about to slip into a brief, well-needed rest, the car croaks violently and he’s suddenly being launched forward in his seat. His life flashes before his eyes.
“Whoops, sorry about that,” the driver says over the rapid beating of Kunikida’s heart. “Pothole.”
“…Ah,” Kunikida swallows the lump in his throat. Thank god he always remembers to put on his seat belt. “It’s no trouble.”
He leans back in his seat after a few seconds of hesitation, deeming the road clear of upcoming potholes. Those really need to be patched up. He thinks about contacting the local police about it but decides against it. It’s just a stupid pothole—and a minor one at that. Besides, there are many more pressing issues currently plaguing Yokohama.
But, not even two minutes later, Kunikida is once again bracing himself against the door as the car jerks forward. Twice in a row.
“Argh—” Kunikida rubs at his head where it’d slammed against the car roof. It can’t be another pothole, right?
“Damn speed bumps,” the driver grumbles, sounding for all the world unconcerned that his passenger almost ended up concussed. “What are they doing in the middle of the road?”
Kunikida turns to him in astonishment. “Where else would they be?”
“The sidewalk?”
Kunikida has a sinking feeling of regret that he should’ve been more suspicious of a taxi cab driving around alleyways in the dead of night. “I don’t believe speed bumps would be of much use to pedestrians.”
The man just shrugs and continues to drive, unperturbed.
Actually, now that he’s looking at the dashboard…
“Wait!” Kunikida can feel his eyes bug out of his head. “Have you been watching the speedometer at all?!”
100 in a 60 zone?! Is this guy crazy?!
“Nope. I’ve been driving these roads for a looong time, young man. I trust my intuition when it comes to speed limits.”
Kunikida grits his teeth. Of course, the one cab he finds is being manned by a borderline-senile hazard to public safety. “Well, clearly that trust is misplaced. You’re going 40 over!”
“Meh,” the driver shrugs again in a what-can-you-do? gesture. Kunikida can think of about a hundred things he could do right now if he wasn’t a man of the kaw. “Does it matter, either way? If anything, I’m getting you home faster.”
“I can’t believe this,” he mutters, gripping tight onto the door handle and the side of his seat. His once grateful attitude toward the man is steadily devolving into one of contempt. “I’d much sooner appreciate making it home in one piece than saving a couple of minutes on the ride there.”
“Tough crowd,” the driver shakes his head. “I guess it really is impossible to please you, Kunikida-kun.”
Kunikida is about to object that no, it isn’t impossible, he has perfectly reasonable standards, when—
‘Kunikida-kun’? That voice…
His heart stops in his chest for the second time that night as he whips his head toward the cab driver.
“D—Dazai?!”
“Took you long enough.” The driver—Dazai, what the hell—takes a dramatically loud gulp of air as he rips off the gray beard. It’s clearly fake, now that he’s paying attention to it. “Wow, that musty hair was so hard to breathe in.”
Kunikida sputters as Dazai veers a sharp left. The terrible driving suddenly makes sense. “What are you doing here?”
“Isn’t it obvious? I’m driving you home.” He’s finally dropped the affected “decrepit man” voice. Now, he just sounds incredibly bored.
“I meant here, posing as a taxi driver!” When Dazai shows no reaction to the glare Kunikida is aiming at his face, he turns on the scruffy gray beard now resting on Dazai’s lap. “And what’s with the damn wig?!”
“Well, life at the agency was getting a bit dull, so I decided picking up another job would make things more interesting.” His face twists with a wide grin. “And what do you know, I was right!”
“I—wait,” Kunikida abandons repeating his question about the wig as ice-cold realization dawns upon him. “Is this why you couldn’t join me for the mission tonight?!”
“…A man can’t just abandon his responsibilities, Kunikida-kun.”
“You—” Kunikida feels the beginnings of a migraine prickle behind his eyes, so he makes the executive decision to not bother unpacking that hulking contradiction of a statement. “If you wanted an extra job, why didn’t you apply somewhere more lucrative? Or at the cafe downstairs? You could’ve finally started chipping away at the tab you’ve been running.”
“Ah hah! You forget that entertainment is my main motive, Kunikida-kun. And everybody knows that late-night taxi rides are where you find the lost, wandering souls of the city.” A side-eyed glance focuses pointedly on him. “Case in point.”
Kunikida’s frown deepens at the conspiratorial glint in his eyes. “That sounds extremely predatory.”
“Oh, I can assure you, it isn’t!” Dazai retracts his hands from the wheel for a terrifying moment to clap his hands together. “Think about it: a lonely, beautiful woman stumbling upon my taxi, where she finds me, ready and waiting to sweep her off of her feet. And then! The night ends in a beautiful double suicide beneath the stars! Isn’t it wonderful, Kunikida-kun?”
Kunikida struggles to see how the explanation makes him sound any less predatory. Dazai must mistake his silence for agreement, because he laughs gleefully and returns his attention to the road ahead.
“I knew you’d agree.”
“I did no such thi—”
“Looks like we’re here!” Dazai pulls over to a screeching halt in front of his apartment building, and it’s only then that Kunikida remembers Dazai just barely got around to obtaining his driver’s license two weeks ago. He hopes and prays that the taxiing gig has only been going on for that long.
Feeling nauseous and more than a little annoyed, Kunikida opens the unlocked door and practically dumps himself out the other side. “Why did the driving instructor pass you…?”
“They just couldn’t resist my devastating charm!”
Kunikida wants to laugh, but he’s too tired to be mean, and the thought of the empty futon waiting for him inside overrides any desire he has to bicker with Dazai. “You can leave now.”
“Whaaat?” He has the gall to look surprised. “You haven’t even paid me yet!”
Kunikida stalls for a moment before turning back around and walking toward the driver's seat. “Fine. Take the money and then go.”
Kunikida never has and never will feel anything but pride for his strong morals, but it’s moments like these where he wishes he had more of a rebellious streak. He finds himself feeling this way around his partner more often than not.
“But, just so you know,” he reaches into his pocket to grab his wallet, leafing through the bills until he collects the right amount and folds them neatly in half, “you aren’t getting any tip.”
He places the folded bills into Dazai’s open palm sticking out through the rolled-down window, but just as he’s about to turn and leave, cold fingers lock tight around his wrist and tug him backward.
“Wait, Kunikida.”
He opens his mouth to spit out some impulsive retort, but it dies on the tip of his tongue when he sees the unnervingly blank look on his partner’s face.
“…What is it?”
Dazai stares at him for a few seconds, his hold around his wrist unyielding as the moment stretches taut between them. Kunikida feels the familiar worry start to fester in his heart that Dazai has done something unspeakable.
“Dazai?”
“…”
The moment is broken by Dazai’s comically wide eyes and exaggerated pout. “Won’t you invite me in?”
Kunikida’s lip curls up in distaste and he wrenches his hand out of Dazai’s loosened grip. “No.”
“But Kunikidaaa!” With each octave he rises in pitch, so too does Kunikida’s blood pressure. “I was so generous to offer you a seat in my humble locomotive.”
“It’s not even yours!” Kunikida snaps, missing the flash of surprise on Dazai’s face. “I feel bad for the poor bastard who got tricked into leasing their car to you.”
Dazai sighs, the surprise gone from his eyes but now replaced by a look Kunikida can only describe as warm. “Come on, Kunikida. Just for a few minutes, humor me.”
I humored you for a whole damn car ride! Kunikida wants to say.
“Fine,” is what comes out of his mouth. “Only for a few minutes.”
Dazai cheers obnoxiously behind him as he hurries towards his apartment door. The quicker he can get them inside, the quicker he can kick Dazai out and finally forget this disaster of a night.
Sadly for him, the universe is feeling extra petty—for reasons still unknown to Kunikida—because ten minutes later finds him brewing a pot of tea for two while Dazai talks his ear off.
“Say, Kunikida. Why didn’t you use your ability to make yourself some roller skates?”
“W—What?! Why the hell would I do that?!” Kunikida’s struck with the unsavory memory of falling flat on his face as a middle schooler, and reminded of his subsequent vendetta against the wheeled torture devices.
“Y’know, so you could get home faster?” Dazai leans heavily against the kitchen’s small island and rests his pouting face in his hands. “It pains me to think what might have happened if I hadn’t shown up in time. Poor Kunikida-kun, your feet would be covered in blisters from all that walking!”
“The state of my feet is none of your business,” Kunikida hisses, grabbing two tea bags from the box on his counter and dropping them into the boiling water. “And that wouldn’t have worked, anyway.”
“Awww, why not?” Dazai feigns a look of pity. “Is your skull too thick for you to balance properly?”
“My—” Kunikida clenches his jaw and counts to three to keep himself from pummeling his partner on the spot. He can’t afford to lose his only mode of transportation until he can invest in a new car. Only a few more days, and then… “My skull is perfectly normal. Unlike how yours will be if you don’t stop talking right now.”
Dazai’s giddy laughter only serves to further grate at his already thinning patience. “I have to admit, I wasn’t planning on dying tonight in such a painful manner, but if my beloved partner is willing to go that far just for me, how can I refuse?”
“Just shut up and get me the cups.”
“Yes sir.” Dazai mock-salutes and saunters out of his line of sight.
Kunikida breathes a sigh of relief. It’s not much since he knows the man is right behind him, but even going two seconds without seeing his smirking face is an immense relief for his overworked heart. “Get the little green ones. They’re in the cupboard to the right of the sink.”
“I know where you keep your precious teacups by now,” Dazai says, stepping up to his side closer than necessary to slide the two cups in front of him. “But I got the white ones instead because you made a bit more tea than usual.”
Looking back down at the teapot, Kunikida loathes to see that he’s right. “Oh. Thanks for noticing.”
“Something wrong? You’re usually more careful than that.” The inquiry sounds innocent enough, but the chin hooking over his shoulder and the gentle hand on his waist are most definitely not.
“No,” Kunikida tries to dislodge him, but Dazai doesn’t budge. “Get off of me.”
“You should probably take the tea bags out now,” Dazai wraps his arm halfway around Kunikida’s body to point at the oversaturated water, ignoring his request completely. “And something is definitely wrong. I haven’t seen you brew tea that dark since the Azure Messenger incident.”
The memory still feels like a stab to the heart, though it’s more of a dull ache compared to the debilitating pain from before. He uses a spoon to carefully scoop out the two tea bags and dumps them in a bowl to compost later. “I’m fine, Dazai.”
His partner just hums, clearly skeptical, and steps away completely. Kunikida doesn’t know what to do with the sudden chill he feels. “Alright.”
Kunikida divides the—admittedly dark—tea between the two cups and places them on the kitchen table in total silence. Dazai takes his normal seat by the window and blows cautiously at the liquid, but otherwise stays quiet. Kunikida sits in the chair adjacent, watching him out of the corner of his eye. He doesn’t return the eye contact, nor does he say a word. It’s deafening.
“I just miss my car,” Kunikida finally admits in one breath, caving under Dazai’s unnerving silent treatment. “I know you and the rest of the Agency have been more than kind to offer me rides to and fro, but it isn’t the same. The seats don’t feel right or the air is too cold or the freshener is too musky and it’s so—”
He drops his head into his hands. “Sorry. I don’t mean to be ungrateful. It’s just been such a long week. I feel like I’m always running late, and my work is getting sloppier by the day, and the only mildly comforting thing has been having you over for tea.”
And that should say a lot, considering how much Dazai aggravates him. But the confession strikes truer than he expects it to as he realizes he really has been enjoying the past half hour with Dazai, aggravation and all.
The metaphorical floodgates have been wrenched open and the reservoir run dry, and Kunikida sags against the table. “The tea should be alright to drink now.”
Dazai doesn’t reach for his teacup, but Kunikida isn’t expecting him to. His voiced frustrations hang heavy in the air and he knows Dazai isn’t careless enough to ignore them.
“Mmm, work’s been rough recently, huh?” He feels Dazai’s sympathetic pats on his forearm deep in his bones. “I never really noticed how important your car was to you until now.”
The use of ‘was’ hurts more than it should. His poor car…
“If it’s any solace to you, you haven’t been late to work at all this past week. As expected of the great Master of Ideals and Scheduling.”
Kunikida snorts. He doesn’t know whether to comment on the stupid title or the fact that Dazai had been paying attention. “Shut up.”
He can’t see the other from where his hands are covering his eyes, but he knows Dazai’s smiling when he takes an exaggerated sip of his tea.
“Hmm, not bad,” Dazai smacks his lips with a hint of pleasant surprise in his voice. “I like it.”
“Really?” Kunikida lifts his head to squint at the man next to him.
Dazai stares back at him. “Would I lie about something as important as tea?“
Kunikida looks back down at his cup. Dazai probably would, but Kunikida has more faith in his tea leaves than his partner’s aptitude for lying. He takes a hesitant sip.
“Hmm.” He blinks, savoring the taste on his tongue. The tea is a bit stronger than what he usually likes, but this particular blend doesn’t make the concentration unbearable. It’s kind of nice, even. “Not bad.”
Dazai smiles behind the rim of his cup. “Told you.”
They finish their tea in silence, but this time it’s a comfortable quiet, devoid of their typical arguments and settling softly between them. Kunikida moves to put their empty cups in the sink, but Dazai stops him, grabbing his wrist and maneuvering them both to the living room.
He sits Kunikida down on the couch and follows suit a second later, stretching his limbs out with a tired groan before melting into the cushions behind him.
“What about the cups…?” Kunikida manages, not bothering to ask whatever Dazai is up to knowing he won’t answer.
“I’ll take care of it,” Dazai assures him, cracking open an eye to glance sideways at him. “You know, sometimes it’s nice to accept comfort from those around you without questioning their motives.”
And then he’s hooking an arm around Kunikida’s neck and pulling him tight against his side.
It’s awkward, with Kunikida leaning over half his body and Dazai’s shoulder pressing uncomfortably into the backrest, but Dazai is warm and his shoulder is a surprisingly cozy pillow and it’s nice.
Kunikida breathes in deep, subconsciously tucking his head further into the crook of Dazai’s neck. “So. You drive a taxi now.”
This close, he can feel as much as he can hear Dazai’s laugh. “Yep. Wanna hear about the weird people I’ve had to drive around?”
Kunikida hums in assent.
“Well, there was this guy—a detective I think. He seemed suuuper stressed out, probably because he was walking around in the middle of the night like an idiot. He even bowed to me in the middle of the street! How weird is that?”
“Oh, shut up,” Kunikida scoffs, face burning. “I wouldn’t have been out that late if you actually did your job once in a while!”
“I guess that’s true,” Dazai concedes, and Kunikida feels a gentle hand slip off his hair tie and start carding through his curls. “I’ll tell you about this other lady then. She was actually insane. I mean, just one look at her and you could tell that she was cracked. I gave her a ride, of course, just to see where a woman like her might be headed. And you know where she asked me to take her? France! Just in case you weren’t aware, Kunikida-kun, France happens to be on the other side of the world. So I ended up taking her to the little bakery two streets over and I guess the baguettes on display were convincing enough for her to believe she successfully emigrated…”
—
Kunikida wakes up the next morning laid out on the sofa and tucked under a thin blanket. The cups are gone and the cleaned-out teapot sparkles in the sunlight. His gratitude greatly outweighs any lonely feelings that might linger in his heart.
—
Dazai doesn’t show up to work on Monday. Attending some out-of-town convention is the excuse he offers after picking up Kunikida’s fifth call. He doesn’t buy it, of course, but it’s not like Kunikida has the resources to drive around the city and find him.
Another day of shouldering double the amount of mission reports later, Kunikida resigns himself to walking the whole way home. The office had been pretty quiet today, as it usually is when lacking the glorified mummy that is his coworker. And though it was relaxing not having to deal with Dazai’s antics, his absence hit harder than normal. Kunikida feels a foreign longing for the comfort Dazai provided during their impromptu teatime that weekend.
Lost in his thoughts, he doesn’t even realize he’s made it home until he’s standing in front of his door. There’s a sticky note taped to it right beneath the eyehole.
Kunikida recognizes Dazai’s handwriting immediately and frowns.
Check the parking lot.
He turns around, peeking over the railing to scan the lot. The only outlier among his neighbors’ vehicles sticks out like a sore thumb. An empty taxi…?
He stumbles back down the stairs in his hurry to check the car, and as he gets closer he notices two pieces of paper stuck behind the windshield wipers. Likely some advertisement or notice judging by the neat positioning of the two.
Curiosity gets the better of him, and he leans closer to analyze the slips of paper.
It’s a certificate for ¥100,000 off of a full-body paint job tucked behind a handwritten note.
Sorry about the stressful week you had. Thanks for letting me borrow the car ;)
.
.
.
“Dazai!!!”