Work Text:
It may seem strange to anyone outside of the organization (as those within its walls always referred to it as, there was no need to name what everyone knew) that every member had been assigned at least three emergency contacts within the organization should anything go wrong. It had been a mandatory implementation from Mori after the old Boss had… succumbed to his illness.
Even then, it was rare for the emergency contacts to be called up – there was a reason that no one (with one glaring redheaded exception) went on missions alone – backup was necessary for the insurance of the safe return of as many members of the organization as possible.
Nakahara Chuuya was seventeen the first time that he had been seriously injured enough that hospital staff had called on his emergency contacts. It was after the Dragon’s Head Conflict, after finding Shibusawa and the bodies of his friends, after succumbing (and recovering) from Corruption.
He hadn’t slept, hadn’t eaten, hadn’t done anything except take mission after mission, some with his partner – but most solo. He needed to fight, to get control, to feel something, though he would never be able to fully tell what that something was. He was angry that his friends had died, but angrier still at the feeling that the situation wasn’t over.
It was a stupid fight. Chuuya was good at knowing his own limits, and even he could admit that he should not have volunteered for the mission that night, though it was supposed to be a relatively easy one.
One misstep in the middle of a brawl and a crowbar snapping his elbow, cracking a portion of the bone. He had grabbed the iron weapon and smashed it across the face of his attacker, but the damage had been done. Bleeding, broken, and woozy from pain, he had stumbled into the nearest hospital before passing out.
Dazai had been his emergency contact – his partner. The hospital had tried calling him several times over the course of several hours, and he never answered the phone. Chuuya, embarrassed, had finally contacted Kouyou and Hirotsu, not knowing if either would respond, to send someone to pick him up.
The sight of old man HIrotsu, wearing his purple scarf, looking so out of place and polished in the cramped hospital room thirty minutes later had seared itself into Chuuya’s brain, bringing him the first sense of relief he had felt in ages.
Chuuya had quietly changed his primary contact to Hirotsu after that, and never mentioned the hospital visit to Dazai. He didn’t want to hear the other’s excuses, or worse, his “reasonings.”
In the years that followed: including events such Dazai’s betrayal, and Chuuya’s adamant refusal to take another partner - preferring to go through his work alone - the emergency contact had not been used. Chuuya was always able to make it back to headquarters, sometimes worse for wear, but always conscious and ready to be checked out by the in-house team of doctors.
He never wanted to wake up – dazed, confused, alone - in a hospital again.