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The air is frigid cold, the bite of winter sinking its teeth deeper into the city. Shishiba stuffs his hands into his pockets to protect them from the chill, but his face is still left to grow numb. Dried blood is itching over his neck, sticking in his hair. His irritation is not enough to warm his veins.
“Shishiba-san.”
Ah. The source of said irritation.
Shishiba tosses a look over his shoulder. Osaragi stands a few feet behind him, grasping at her elbows with either hand. The briefcase with her buzzsaw hangs from one of her hands, the fingers gripping the handle splotched with red. Her face almost glows under the gray haze of the overcast sky.
Her eyes pierce into him. She doesn’t say anything. He shrugs after she continues to remain silent.
“What?” he mutters in reply. He’s tired. He’s hungry. He’s pissed off.
Osaragi’s eyes narrow ever-so-slightly, the only physical sign of her ire as well. “I’m cold,” she explains. Her body shudders as if to back up her claim.
Obviously, she must be cold. Even Hyo would probably need a jacket out in this weather. But Shishiba isn’t feeling particularly sympathetic right now. “So am I,” he retorts. “What’s your point?”
Osaragi’s lips flatten into a thin line. She looks around, as if she’s waiting for something. The street they are standing on is empty and still, stretching around the two of them like they had stepped into a picture captured by a camera from a different time. The buildings’ windows are dark, the pavement dull. Osaragi appears rooted to her spot, looking like a ghost haunting this street in her intricate dress and scuffed boots.
“The point, Osaragi,” Shishiba urges with a suppressed sigh of exasperation, turning his eyes heavenward. Her name fits in his mouth in a way that feels strangely familiar, although they had only known each other for a few months by this time. He hasn’t made a habit of calling her by name though. It feels somewhat... perilous.
Osaragi doesn’t move. Until the wind kicks up, stirs the veil over her hair, makes her shiver again. Shishiba can’t help but feel a pang of guilt thud in his chest. But he’s pissed. About a lot of things.
The mission almost cost him his head. Osaragi didn’t listen to a word he said, messily tearing through people like dry trees and infrastructure like plaster despite direct orders to keep it neat. He’s pretty sure that his wrist is going to hurt like a bitch after the adrenaline wears off. His suit still carries an adequate amount of blood splatter, which is going to rack up his bill at the dry cleaners. And now Osaragi, bane of his existence, his unwanted mentee, is complaining that she is cold when she’s the one who insists on wearing a stupid dress to missions.
“I completed the mission,” Osaragi bites back. The cold has seemed to force out a darker, more desperate part of her right now. But the same can be said for Shishiba. He whirls on his heel, facing her head-on.
“We completed the mission,” he corrects, enunciating every word like Osaragi is incapable of understanding simple language, which she honestly might be, “and you didn’t listen to me at all.”
“There’s no time for such talk on the battlefield,” she replies almost haughtily, like she is the fucking mentor here. Shishiba wants to bang his hammer into a wall right now.
“What about off the battlefield then?” He pins her with a fierce glare. “You never listen to me, Osaragi.” There it is. Her name again. It doesn’t exactly feel fair to play familiar since he’s been trying to slough her off to some other assassin. One of the many reasons being this. “I don’t know if you remember, but I’m your mentor. You’re supposed to listen to me.”
Osaragi’s eyebrows furrow now. “Then you should look after me if I’m cold.”
Of course she concurs, when it’s fucking convenient for her. “I’m not your father,” barks Shishiba, unable to rein back a sneer. “Bring a jacket next time.”
“A gentleman would offer his jacket,” says Osaragi matter-of-factly.
That has to be one of the most simple-minded, idealistic, downright dumbest things Osaragi has ever said in Shishiba’s presence. He definitely wants to just throw his hammer into some glass right now, needs to rid himself of the tension boiling inside him.
Instead, he steps forward until he’s mere inches from her. He looks her square in the face. “Osaragi,” he says in a low voice, and he knows his gaze is menacing, “do I look like a gentleman to you?”
He glares down his nose at her, tilts his chin up. It’s a look that has had the toughest of thugs shaking in their boots. Osaragi, however, meets his look unflinchingly, stares into the nightmare with those large, murky red eyes. But he sees her throat bob, her shoulders tighten.
A part of him is impressed.
Osaragi speaks first, another difference from the other victims of this look. “Is this punishment then?” she asks quietly. Her eyes are no longer black steel; she appears almost complacent.
The question hits him like his own hammer to some poor motherfucker’s head. That isn’t– Was that what he was doing? He honestly hadn’t intended it that way. He had just been irked with Osaragi’s pigheadedness, tired from the strain of the job. Yotsumura would have probably—
He shouldn’t be thinking about Yotsumura.
A realization suddenly dawns on him: is he trying not to be Yotsumura right now? His scar burns at the thought, like the skin is being slashed through all over again.
It had been his fault for not keeping it simple. Despite Yotsumura’s cryptic-ass counsel and old-man crankiness, Shishiba had found himself settling into the routine of their dynamic like a lost cat finding a warm box. The days became something to look forward to when he woke up, not just a bland existence he had been sentenced to. It hadn’t been simple in the slightest, and it cost him every day since that fateful fight of theirs.
Maybe, a part of him, concealed in the bitter shadows of his heart, festering in the bile of regret, thinks that if he treats Osaragi so impersonally, she will never be haunted by him the way Yotsumura haunts him.
It feels awfully personal of him to attempt this. He hadn’t known what the Order was thinking when they dropped Osaragi into his care. She had looked like a simple woman, yet there had been this blankness in her face and it was like Shishiba had stepped in front of a mirror.
“No,” Shishiba answers, his voice suddenly foreign to his ears. “Look–” Indeed, Osaragi affixes her gaze onto him, but she shivers in the process. She looks different than she had when they first met in this moment; guileless face, ruffled veil. Shishiba’s hands move on their own, removing his jacket and resting it over Osaragi’s shoulders. The cold bleeds through his shirt, but it feels inconsequential to how Osaragi tentatively accepts the gesture with wide eyes. She wraps it closer around her. He drops his hands back into his pockets.
“Look,” he resumes. “This is only going to work if we learn to trust each other.” The words leave his mouth feeling like he’s forcing stones out of his chest. His skin prickles at the idea of opening this door, giving permission to enter and settle down. It’s everything an assassin avoids: personal ties, softhearted reliance on others. He ignores how he’s suddenly aware of every bone in his body and continues on. “You gotta trust that I’m looking out for you, and I gotta trust that you will heed my words.”
Osaragi is quiet for a moment, considering his words. “You’re not always going to be right, Shishiba-san,” she states, not arrogantly, but calmly, like it’s a fact that bears acknowledgement. Shishiba doesn’t feel angered though. It’s a valid point: she does need to think for herself. Depending on him completely would be a nuisance.
“And neither are you,” he returns just as firmly. Osaragi raises her eyebrows up once – a sign of defeat. Or probably just resignation. He’ll take what he can get.
“Now then, hurry up. It’s freezing out here.” He spins back around and starts walking, trying to stave off the cold with a brisk pace. Osaragi glides after him, heavy boots surprisingly quiet on the pavement. She hovers behind a few inches. Then, she’s right beside him, hand curling around the inside of his elbow. He stops, stares at her, tries to make sense of what’s she’s doing.
“Thank you for the jacket, Shishiba-san,” Osaragi murmurs. Her hand still lies on his arm. “This will keep us both warm, right?” She gives Shishiba’s arm a tentative squeeze with her fingers, pale skin on his white sleeve.
Shishiba can’t deny he’s surprised. “That’s not—” he finds himself saying, already geared up to ward her off, but then his words about trust and whatnot circle through his mind. He lets out a sigh, drawing it out as if to release the conflicting feelings churning inside him.
“Osaragi,” he drawls tiredly, giving her name another try, saying it like it’s no big deal to acknowledge her, like he’s completely fine with the prospect of her becoming more than a temporary spot in the journey of his life. He draws her closer, entwines their arms together, wire around wire. “If you’re trying to make me a gentleman, don’t hold your breath.”
Osaragi answers with an expression that seems the closest thing to a pout he’s ever seen on her. She looks like she believes him. Good. At least one of them does.