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It was a little cliché—dodging from gunfire in the middle of what was supposed to be an abandoned warehouse on the port—but Dazai supposed the fact that spending the majority of his tenure as police superintendent battling the elusive Port Mafia was a cliché all of its own.
Of course, cliché or not, the gunfire was very real, and Dazai swore to himself as bullets flew past his skull to embed in the wall in front of him.
The individuals in the faceless army of mafia grunts were becoming better shots; it was annoying.
While anytime he attempted a sting operation in the midst of mafia business was bound to have a certain degree of danger attached to it, this particular operation had gone south at a marvelously quick speed. Dazai scowled at the wall in front of him, drumming his finger on the side of his gun as he tried to figure out where he went wrong.
Normally, his predictions were spotless. The way he analyzed mafia movements and their structures was peerless, it was exactly why he had been promoted to police chief at such a young age (much to the ire of some of the older candidates). The individual in charge of this particular mafia venture was nothing special in terms of intellect. In fact, Dazai would call them fairly idiotic—it was a miracle they had been placed in charge of anything—but he wasn’t one to shy away from using his target’s weak spots.
Even if their approach had been tipped off somehow, that certain individual should not be able to organize a counterattack as crisp and savage as this one.
Pulling out his phone, Dazai dialed without glancing down, bringing the device to his ear and hoping his chief inspector would be able to hear him over the gunfire.
“What happened?” Oda’s voice was as even as ever but the snapped question—devoid of any type of greeting—belayed how concerned he was.
Dazai’s scowl deepened. “If I knew we wouldn’t be in this mess. ETA?”
“Five minutes.”
“How many?”
“Twenty in my squad, another twenty another ten minutes out.”
Shifting his weight, Dazai counted the seconds, timing the enemy’s fire before popping his head up over the edge of his makeshift shield, scanning the room in an instant before dropping back down. “That will be plenty. Come in from the south side of the building.”
“Will do. Don’t get yourself killed.” The line cut.
They just had to survive five minutes. They could manage that.
Holding a hand to his side, Dazai ordered, “give me your weapon.”
“Sir?”
Wide eyes stared up at him as if Dazai had sprouted a second head. Resisting the urge to berate the younger man at being timid at such a time, Dazai repeated his order. “Your weapon, Atsushi. Now.”
At the snapped order, the officer jumped into action, passing his pistol to Dazai who gave it a quick look over to make sure it would suit his needs. With a satisfied nod, he said, “when I give the order, I want you to run to cover to your left, you should be looking to see if you recognize any faces. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Also, do me a favor and don’t let the chief inspector know I did this.”
Dazai barely had time to register the confused expression on Atsushi’s face before he darted out from behind their barricade, both pistols raised and aimed in different directions. Running through the midst of the mafia members, Dazai fired continuously, only pausing to make sure he wasn’t pointing a gun in the direction of a fellow officer before pulling the trigger.
It was an insane strategy, a move only someone slightly mad would even consider, almost suicidal.
But in the middle of their circle, the mafia grunts were somewhat crippled (or at least, the ones unwilling to kill a fellow mafia member were). In constant motion, they weren’t good enough shots to hit him (even if they were improving). Any member who was close enough to see his face should recognize him as the youngest police chief in the city: the one their boss had ordered to be left for him to deal with personally. If they didn’t want to lose fingers, they would refrain from killing him (of course, that was assuming they recognized him before firing their weapon).
There were a lot of ‘ifs’ and assumptions, but Dazai was against the wall, out of options, and needed to buy time for his reinforcements to arrive.
When they were thoroughly fixated on him, Dazai shouted. “Now, officer!”
He only saw a flash of white hair before being preoccupied with staying alive, but with the purpose of his distraction served, Dazai raced back to his comrades, covered by their fire at his back.
Collapsing next to Atsushi, Dazai tried not to gasp for air from the exertion. His heart was pounding against his chest, ringing louder than the gunfire.
“Remember, don’t tell Oda I did that, he’ll kill me,” Dazai muttered to the officer once again staring at him with wide eyes.
“That could have killed you!” Atsushi protests.
Dazai shrugged off the complaint, passing Atsushi’s weapon back. “Well, did you recognize anyone?”
At the question, Atsushi’s expression clouded over. “Akutagawa.”
That was certainly a surprise. “Are you sure?”
Atsushi nodded, a wry smile on his face. “I doubt anyone on this force could ID him faster than I can, boss.”
It was a fair claim, given the incident where Atsushi was held hostage for a time by the infamous mafioso. But sightings of Akutagawa had gotten less and less common within the city as he was sent abroad to handle the organization’s international affairs. Over the last two months, Dazai had come to suspect the man responsible for some of the highest death tolls in the city had been reassigned to work directly under the organization’s boss.
For him to be here…
“That was the only person you recognized?” Atsushi nodded. “And you got a good look?”
“They were all so distracted by you that I had some time before anyone noticed me.”
“Small blessings,” Dazai murmured to himself, glancing at his watch. He should have bought enough time…
Pitching his voice so it could be heard to the rest of the sting squad also ducking for cover around him, Dazai called. “On my count, cease fire for fifteen seconds before resuming aimed at my left.”
There were scattered responses of ‘yes, sir’ which was as good as it was going to get under the circumstances. Keeping his eye on his watch, Dazai ran calculations. He anticipated how long it would take the reinforcements to pile out of their cars, do gear checks, and fall into formation. Anticipated how quickly they could get around to the entrance he told Oda to use while making sure they didn’t walk into an ambush or enemy fire. He pictured Oda at the head of the group, next to a small group of officers wielding a battering ram at the south entrance and counted down.
“Cease fire!” He shouted, and the shots by his side cut off immediately.
In that instant, Dazai knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that every second he spent making sure his force was the best trained in the city had been well worth it.
Shouts sounded from his right as Oda’s force rushed into the room and advanced. Dazai peeked over the edge of his barrier and grinned. “Resume fire to my left! Push them back!”
The shots resumed at his word: the pincer attack forcing the mafia members back until, finally, the first broke and ran leading to a tidal wave of deserters. Watching them run for it, Dazai’s eyes narrowed. Whoever was originally organizing the assault couldn’t be among them. In the face of their superior, the low-level grunts would not break and run even in a dire situation, not in a group as tightly run as the Port Mafia. Much less, he didn’t see Akutagawa anywhere, and he doubted Atsushi would have misidentified this man.
Someone had kept them pinned down while they went to handle their main business. Getting to his feet, he called, “Atsushi, you and your squad are with me!”
Atsushi echoed the order to his squad and Dazai heard footsteps fall behind him as he rushed around the dwindling firefight to the area opposite where he had crouched (the area the gunfire had prevented them from making any moves toward). There was a dock entrance wide open, and Dazai could see cars idling as a group of well-dressed people spoke: their wealth indicative of higher ranking mafia members.
“Incoming!” The hoarse shout was familiar, and Dazai whirled to make out Akutagawa Ryuunosuke evidently acting as a bodyguard.
He bit back a scowl: even as rough around the edges and barely restrained as he was, Akutagawa had a penchant for being a pain in Dazai’s ass. One day he would have the kid off the streets, it was something he had promised himself the first time they ran into each other.
“Fire at will,” Dazai ordered the officers behind him as he skidded to a stop next to dock doors, using them as cover.
At Akutagawa’s warning, the group quickly dispersed, the richly dressed higher-ups sliding into the cars at admirable speed while Akutagawa’s subordinates kept Dazai and his at bay. It was beyond frustrating, to have such a well-planned sting foiled by whoever had taken over the business transaction. One of the well-dressed individuals was lingering, staring in the direction of the warehouse and Dazai took as it as an opportunity to snatch some sort of boon from the botched night.
In the dark of the new moon, it was difficult to pick out anything but silhouettes outlined by the headlights of the car, but it was enough for Dazai to have a decent target. Swinging out from behind the dock he aimed his pistol and fired. The person darted to the side and Dazai swore under his breath, raising his gun to take aim again before a kunai flew past his head.
Dropping back behind cover, Dazai stared at the throwing knife embedded into the crates in front of him.
Fuck.
There was only one individual in the Port Mafia that still used such antiquated weapons, even though they were no slouch with modern firearms. It was no wonder the opposition from the mafia was so strong if that individual had taken over the evening’s deal.
Glancing back at the dock, Dazai was almost relieved to find everyone involved had already vanished. Straightening, Dazai glanced deeper in the warehouse, pleased to see Oda directing some officers as they lead the handful of captured mafia grunts out to the pickup wagon. With nothing more for him to do inside, Dazai cautiously ventured out onto the dock where the cars had been idling, trying to guess what had been so important for such a person to take over the exchange.
His thoughts came to a screeching halt at the sight of blood on the pavement. It wasn’t a lot, just a puddle and some droplets that indicated the person injured moved of their own ability as they climbed into the car.
Dazai knew he was the only one among his people that got off a clean shot at anyone in the negotiating group.
He was so fucked.
After handling the legal and bureaucratic aspects of the operation that couldn’t be put off until the next workday, Dazai made his way home with no small amount of trepidation. In a moment of inspiration (or desperation, depending on how one viewed it), he stopped by the liquor store and picked up a ridiculously expensive bottle of wine and an equally expensive bottle of scotch.
When he stepped into the flat, the lights were on and a familiar jacket was hanging on the hook. Toeing off his shoes, Dazai mustered the best smile he could and stepped into the main room. “I’m home, Chuuya.”
“Fuck off.”
Biting back a wince, Dazai carefully walked further inside, toward the man seated on the couch in the living room. His hair was tied up in a messy bun so it was away from his face, various clothes scattered on the floor to indicate he was shirtless, left only in his trousers. Lined carefully on the coffee table in front of him, were a handful of kunai (removed from their hidden places over his body) as well as a cross-body gun-holster.
“How was your day at work?” Dazai tried again.
"You fucking shot me! That was my day at work!"
That time, Dazai did actually wince but he continued moving forward (either very confident in how much the notably dangerous and angry man was in love with him or just eager to die, he wasn’t sure). He walked around the sofa to set the alcohol down on the low table. From there, he could better make out the wound Chuuya was trying to handle on his own.
Judging by how far he had gotten, Chuuya must have just made it home himself. The wound had, at least, stopped bleeding much and Chuuya was just finished cleaning it as best he could.
“It was just a graze,” Dazai said, adopting a sing-song voice. “Chuuya can surely handle more than that, he is the boss of the Port Mafia after all.”
Finally, Chuuya looked up and gave Dazai a glare that had probably made more than one person cry. “Keep talking if you have a death wish, bastard.”
Letting out a sigh, Dazai took the bloodied cloth from Chuuya’s hand, replacing it with the opened bottle of scotch (which Chuuya immediately took a curious sniff of). Settling next to the other man, Dazai sorted through the first aid items laid out as he pulled on a pair of gloves (also conveniently sitting out, no matter how hard a glare Chuuya was giving him).
“You weren’t even supposed to be there,” Dazai said, getting to work dressing the injury. “The last anyone heard, including me, you were in Kyoto.”
“If you knew my every move the mafia would already be done for. The man running the deal was incompetent and I had some things I needed to see with my own eyes.” Chuuya replied after taking a large gulp of the liquor. “Besides, what type of superintendent leads a sting operation like that? The idiots I had playing guards might have actually killed you, or caught you, and then my big parade about taking you out myself would have been exposed as a lie.”
Humming thoughtfully, Dazai said, “we’ll have to find a better middle-ground, otherwise next time I might actually kill you.”
Chuuya scoffed. “As if you could actually land a killing hit on me. Don’t flatter yourself.”
Finished bandaging the wound, Dazai looked up, firmly in Chuuya’s personal space as he stared into brilliant blue eyes. “You are okay, right?”
Chuuya blinked, and then blushed, looking away. “I’m fine. It really was just a graze since you’re such a shitty shot.”
Grinning, Dazai leaned back. “Good.”
Four years they had been at this charade, before Dazai was the chief of police and before Chuuya was the Port Mafia boss. It wasn’t as serious back then, infrequent fucks before they became frequent and then regular until, somewhere along the way, they moved in together and then…
Considering who he was and how he operated, the chances of accidentally killing his husband in a firefight had occurred to Dazai before, but now that the real possibility of it was shoved in front of his face, Dazai couldn’t help but be a little unsettled at how easily it might have happened.
“Oi, bastard, are you even listening to me?” Chuuya snapped, flicking Dazai’s forehead.
Jolting slightly, Dazai brought a hand up to rub the spot. “Mmm, no, I tuned you out.”
Rolling his eyes, Chuuya leaned forward. “Whatever, I just expect something fantastic to apologize for the fact that you shot me.”
“It was on accident.”
“Doesn’t change the fact that you fucking shot me.”
“You threw a knife at my head.”
“It was nowhere near your head, idiot, if that’s what I had actually been aiming for you wouldn’t be alive to say such stupid shit.”
Grinning at the confirmation of what he had already suspected, Dazai cocked an eyebrow. “Deliberately failing to kill the chief of police when you had a golden opportunity? To think the feared Nakahara Chuuya would be so soft in the face of the enemy.”
“I’m more than willing to pick up one of those knives and chop off a finger if that will satisfy you,” Chuuya snapped back.
They were so close that Chuuya’s breath warmed Dazai’s face and, unable to keep up the argument or charade any longer, he closed the distance between their lips. One hand moved up to grip the side of Chuuya’s face, keeping him still as Dazai slowly moved his mouth against Chuuya’s, lips parted so he could almost taste the stifled gasp of Chuuya being caught off-guard. The mafia boss melted into the embrace immediately, recovering rapidly from his surprise and kissing Dazai back, one hand coming up to hang onto Dazai’s tie, keeping him just as anchored to the kiss as Chuuya himself was.
When they finally parted to catch their breath, Dazai pressed into one more chaste kiss before admitting. “I’m glad you’re okay.”
Chuuya’s nose crinkled. “You’re a sap, Dazai Osamu.”
Humming thoughtfully, Dazai stole another kiss, reveling in how Chuuya’s lips immediately gave way under his, savoring the blown-out pupils in blue eyes when he sat back properly. Smirking, Dazai said, “what can I say? I married you, after all, it would be a shame to lose you after all the trouble it took to make sure no one knew a thing.”
There was a nod of agreement from Chuuya before an impish glint crossed his gaze and he added, “but don’t think you’re getting out of this so easily, bastard. I’m going to need some serious apologies after this.”
“Apologies, as in more than one?”
“Glad your ears still work.”
Dazai bit back a groan. He was never going to hear the end of this.