Work Text:
The Armed Detective Agency, Dazai had decided during his first days in the stuffy office building, was odd.
The lack of open wounds whenever someone exited Fukuzawa’s office after messing up on a mission, whenever Tanizaki returned from training martial arts with Kunikida, was alarming at best, disturbing at worst.
When he, mere months prior, had taught Akutagawa techniques to counter long distance attacks, he hadn't been satisfied until multiple bullets had at least grazed Akutagawa's skin — not that it had helped much when the lessons never seemed to stick.
In a way, he was certain he was being lured into giving in to a sense of false security, a spiderweb smeared with honey. Even after several weeks had passed, that feeling had hardly faded.
Well. At least he had settled into a routine of sorts.
On Tuesdays, Yosano invited them out to drinks after work, fully expecting whoever joined her to pick up the tab without complaints. It worked near every time.
Last week, Dazai had lifted his hands, seemingly guilty as he had dramatically emptied out his pockets, revealing a handkerchief and Kunikida’s favourite fountain pen. Yosano had scoffed, of course, painted lip curling into a snarl;
“You're lying to us, I can tell. No one’s that broke. Whatever. Hey, bartender, bring us another round of these, will you?”
“Lying to you? No way. I'd never”, he had said, smiling while emptying the drink into a poor potted plant when no one was paying attention.
He kept stashes, black as mafia blood, hidden in various places — never keep it on your person, don't be stupid, kid; Hirotsu had once said, lecturing, even though Dazai had already known that, had known it since he had been eight, alone and swiping the pockets of adults with nimble fingers —, of course, though this had hardly been an emergency warranting searching one of those spots up.
On Wednesdays, Kenji accompanied Ranpo to his preferred convenience store. Stocking up on snacks appeared to be a matter taken seriously, considering just how many bags Kenji usually carried back to the office, not even remotely bothered by the weight.
Proudly presented like war trophies, chocolates and brightly coloured candies were soon laid out on Ranpo’s desk. One time, Dazai had been intrigued by the bounty, by the chance of playful banter with a like-minded individual rather than by sweets.
“That's quite a lot of stuff you've got there, Ranpo. I bet you wouldn't even notice if anything were to go missing.”
Ranpo had raised an eyebrow at him, hostile from the very beginning. “Try me.”
He had been tempted to, admittedly. Then again, even Dazai hadn't been certain whether Ranpo’s words were challenge or threat, and, given how Ranpo appeared to be an integral member of the Agency, charming rather than annoying him was the best course of action.
The next day, he had brought a fresh batch of rice cakes, filled with red bean paste, to the office, confidently setting it down on polished wood. “A gift for you, Ranpo.”
“Are you stupid? I just bought stuff yesterday.” Ranpo had clicked his tongue, green eyes sharp. “Besides, I hate those. Mochi doesn't taste like anything.”
Dazai's smile had thinned. “I have a suspicion that you would dislike anything I got you.”
“Maybe you're not that dull after all, then. You're exactly right.”
“And why’s that, I wonder?”
“I don't like you.”
A chuckle, slightly strained. “I don't think I've done anything to deserve that kind of treatment.”
Ranpo had pointedly turned his chair around, narrow back facing him, and that had been that.
Saturdays, like today, were boring workdays, that fact proven by him being the only detective — hah — currently frequenting the Agency’s office, absentmindedly twirling a pen between his fingers, the documents he was supposed to be reading pushed to the side to skim through later.
The clock ticked steadily, albeit one of its hands stuttered whenever it reached six fifty-three; just as it did now.
For a moment, he contemplated raiding Ranpo’s hiding spot for about a quarter of his snacks; the lock of his desk’s drawer was easy enough to pick, a pathetic excuse for one. Even the padlock of Gin’s diary had been more of a challenge, the blade pressed against his throat excluded.
Then, Kunikida burst through the door.
Blood stained his clothing, blooming outwards from the stomach. Droplets fell to the floor, sinking into dense carpet, and Dazai grimaced. He was not going to take the blame for those stains, that was for sure.
“That's not looking good”, he drawled, head tilted to the side. Dark strands fell, covering half a face. “You're being careless, Kunikida.”
“I was ambushed.” The words came out sharp, Kunikida’s breathing laboured as he clutched at the wound with one hand, digging for the first aid kit in the cabinet. “I couldn't have seen the attack coming. It had nothing to do with carelessness.”
That many dramatics over a simple injury. Dazai huffed, amused.
“I'm not talking about the job itself.”
“What else about, then?” Kunikida snapped, seemingly trembling. He really was giving the performance his all. “Just get over here and help me, damned Dazai.”
“Help?” Widened eyes met Kunikida's behind his glasses, feathery cracks drawn through them. A bad joke, nothing more; Chūya would have never let him come that close, would have never asked him for help when it came to cleaning out wounds. He chuckled, airy. “Ah, you really are funny. You must be rather popular with the ladies after all.”
Saturdays were boring workdays, though, usually, the President stopped by at seven in the evening. He usually pretended to get papers, a bag, anything from his office, though it was clear as day what the visits truly were — surveillance.
Not that Dazai blamed him.
Six fifty-four.
If Fukuzawa was going to find Kunikida bleeding over the carpet, things were going to get ugly.
Mori had never taken kindly to a mess.
The words got him a glare in response. He raised his hands in mock surrender, one of them still spinning the fountain pen. “Alright, alright.” A sigh, resigned. “I'm not looking for bad blood. I'll help you out — once, and you better keep it in mind. I'm not risking my well-being for nothing in return, got it?”
“What are you even talking about?”
Mori, too, had made sure he always made one nonetheless, red spilling as scalpels fished around in wounds like fishing rods in sea-themed carnival games. Taking the matter entirely out of his hands.
Kunikida twitched the moment Dazai reached for the gauze, already pushing stained clothing aside. He huffed.
“Stay still. I'm used to binding bandages, see? I'll do a better job than you in this state.”
A few seconds passed, valuable, before Kunikida shrugged, the gesture unusually sluggish. “Fine.”
Six fifty-six.
The wound really wasn't all that bad, surface-level more than anything, though the skin underneath Dazai's fingers was already turning cold, the blood loss taking a toll. When applying pressure, Kunikida tensed, sucking in a sharp breath through his teeth, though he at least didn't complain.
Not allowing him any time to question his actions, Dazai looped an arm around his waist, quickly relocating him from where he had collapsed against the wall to his workplace.
Six fifty-seven, and Kunikida was propped up on his office chair, lower half hidden by the desk, wound invisible from the path the President was going to take.
“There we go. As long as you stay in that position, he won't know anything’s amiss”, Dazai said, self-satisfied. He really had the act of being kind figured out by now. “I don't think he'll notice the blood stains right away, the President usually keeps his head up rather than having his eyes on the ground, so that'll be fine. You'll just have to clean them before anyone else comes here tomorrow.”
Kunikida was looking at him weirdly.
Befriending Ranpo, it appeared, was impossible.
That, or Dazai simply wasn't used to having to suck up to anyone. Being Mori's right hand man had guaranteed him respect from countless mafiosi, and for those who didn't care much about titles, violent rumours of the youngest executive in the Port Mafia, the Demon Prodigy, had done it.
He sincerely doubted he was going to win a mind as sharp as Ranpo’s over with intimidation. A shame, really, because gifts really didn't seem to be working, either.
He had made two attempts, after all.
“What's this? I hate that kind of candy.”
“Do you? I saw you tear through a whole package of them just yesterday.” Dazai's attention was on keeping his smile from drifting into something vile. “How odd.”
“I don't want anything from you.” Ranpo’s lip curled, and the candies were thrown away without a second thought, plastic piling up in the bin. “I've said so before. Do you think I'm stupid enough to be bribed into liking you?”
“Of course not, Ranpo. I'm just trying to make friends.”
“Do that somewhere else, then.”
Flattery was hardly going to work, although he had little to lose from giving it a try.
“I believe we would get along well enough if only you gave me a chance to prove myself”, he said, voice airy. “You're a smart man; allow me to learn from you. I admire you and what you do for the Agency.”
The words weren't even insincere — albeit said with a goal in mind, Dazai had to admit that Ranpo’s intellect was more than impressive.
Mori would have been fond of him.
Ranpo, despite merely being able to guess at his intentions, scoffed. “Yeah, sure you do. Just leave me alone, this is getting annoying.”
Blunt nails dug into his own palms, albeit Dazai forced his smile to stay bright. “I really do respect you, Ranpo, but I don't know how we're going to get along if you're this set on disliking me.”
“We won't”, Ranpo said, pink lips closing around a lollipop. “I was against taking you in, and I still am. You're not as good of an actor as you think you are.”
His expression fell, eyes colder, only for a split second. It was long enough for Ranpo’s mouth to twitch into something victorious.
“A shame. Alright, then — I'll leave you to it. Would hate to interrupt our best detective’s work.” The melodic lilt of his voice didn't quite hide the underlying venom. “Tanizaki and Naomi invited me out for dinner, anyway.”
That was fine. He didn't necessarily have to befriend Ranpo, as long as they both tolerated each other's presence.
You won some, you lost some.
“Hey, take the trash out before you go, will you?” When he raised his gaze over his shoulder, Ranpo’s smirk was drenched with mischief, entirely antagonistic. “That's the newby’s job.”
For a moment, he imagined just how pleasant it would have been for his foot to collide with Ranpo’s stomach, to make him bite the table’s edge and kick his head in, neck splintering first.
“Of course, Ranpo.”
Tanizaki was trusting enough; while kind enough to befriend easily, he wasn't stupid, a good fit for the Armed Detective Agency. A competent member who didn't ask too many questions. Light Snow, too, was useful, from what Dazai had seen of it — perfect for assassinations especially, Verlaine would have been exceptionally intrigued by it.
“How are you doing, by the way?” Pleasant chit-chat, the base of all relationships. “I heard you and Kunikida recently.”
Tanizaki merely blinked at him, eyes confused. “What?”
He should have stopped talking right then and there. Cursed human desire to bond when forced into close proximity.
“The injuries”, Dazai clarified, forcing his voice into something pitiful. “From what I've heard through the thin walls, he must've been going at it pretty hard. Did Yosano fix you up?”
An understatement, really — with Kunikida barking orders and the constant loud thuds coming from the currently empty room of the office, one could have only assumed that Tanizaki had messed up quite badly, a severe punishment for a dumb mistake.
His words got laughter in response, though it sounded wrong, nervous.
“That's not —, no. Kunikida would never do anything like that. Even when we train, we'd never leave wounds.”
Dazai paused, unable to form any words before Naomi chimed in, delicate fingers holding noodles trapped between chopsticks; “Exactly. Even though the training sometimes gets a bit too physical for my liking, there's never any actual harm done. Kunikida especially makes sure everyone is doing well.”
Brown eyes narrowed. “I saw you limping, though. It looked like there was severe trauma damage done to your Achilles tendon, going up to the plantaris.”
Mori had liked to bring the possibility of severing said tendon before, a clean cut. Can't commit suicide if you can't walk, can't reach rope or pills or blades; a joke.
“Oh, that? As embarrassing as it is, I just stumbled and must have hurt my ankle. Yosano took care of it.”
“Kunikida didn't break it, then.” A statement, not a question.
Tanizaki looked alarmed. Stupid. Idiot. He should have kept his mouth shut. “Of course not. If he accidentally hurt me, he would be around right now, trying to make up for it somehow.”
Dazai hummed in response, noncommittal, glancing down at his own noodles. A chopstick pierced a piece of cabbage.
“Were you some sort of doctor before joining us?” Naomi eventually asked, tone curious, eyes much sharper than Tanizaki’s.
A bitter taste spread in his mouth. “Definitively not.”
Suddenly, he had lost all appetite.
“Kunikida”, Dazai cooed, voice melodic, a mockingjay echoing a bird’s sing-song, “Quit ignoring me, Kunikida.”
To his credit, he had been doing quite well for the past hour. Even with Dazai's hands on his desk and his shoulders, twirling blonde hair around a finger, he hadn't moved his gaze from his computer screen, a picture-perfect statue except for the way his fingers kept flying across the keyboard.
For a moment, Dazai had considered holding onto his wrists, intent on not being dismissed any longer.
That didn't appear to be necessary, however, as Kunikida’s head snapped around to him the moment he began to huff warm breath against his neck.
“What do you want, Dazai?”
“Oh, a lot of things, really”, he mused. “Though, right now, I kinda want to go for some food from that expensive sushi restaurant that just opened a few streets away. What do you say, partner? Want to order us some?”
Blackmailing best began with small demands.
“Definitely not. Go and do your work rather than fooling around.” Kunikida paused, frown deepening. “It's not even time for lunch yet. Besides, I won't be buying you anything.”
Dazai's smile widened. Escaping Ranpo’s ears, he leaned forward, lips almost brushing against blonde strands. “Ah, but you do remember you owe me a favour, do you? Otherwise, I might have to talk to the President about what happened not too long ago. That'd be a shame, right?”
“About what, exactly?” Kunikida’s eyes narrowed, head craned over his neck to meet Dazai's gaze. “I don't get what you're trying to convince — or should I say threaten — me with.”
“Oh, I'm pretty sure you're aware. Though, if you've forgotten”, A hand moved down to Kunikida’s abdomen, hovering over the wound covered by clothing, still wrapped in gauze, “I could always remind you.”
Kunikida grabbed his wrist, tense. “What are you getting at?”
“My, my, so angry, Kunikida. That's bad for your health, you know? You'll die sooner if you're always this upset. Ah, well, you've spoiled my appetite anyway. Just remember I won't always be this patient, yeah?”
Kunikida’s scowl when Dazai tapped the tip of his nose was deep enough to certainly leave lasting wrinkles. A shame.
He turned away, hands fisting the beige of his coat.
Odasaku would have been disappointed, but old habits died hard.
Besides, a guy had to eat.
Yosano had been watching him all day long.
She tried to be subtle about it, and he appreciated that, even though her efforts were wasted. The way she kept lingering in doorways, eyes always finding his form, his arms, wrapped in fresh gauze, was a little too obvious after all.
He allowed the game to play on for hours, wanting to see what was going to happen, though she never once said a word.
Eventually, when Kunikida left the office for his lunch break, exactly noon, Dazai cleared his throat. Blood threatened to seep into the fabric of his coat. “Is something the matter? Did I forget to flush the toilet again? Silly me.” A wide smile. “Won't happen again, ma'am.”
“I don't appreciate that you don't seem to value life much.” Her gaze was cool, reserved. “But that's besides the point. I just wanted to say that I'd prefer if you'd tell me when you're hurt, rather than have you steal my supplies.”
“Supplies?”
“Yes. If you need a visual to remember, look at the bandages on your arms, your neck.”
He hummed in response. “Alright, got it.”
Occasionally, giving in was the closest thing to victory. Or so he liked to think.
Yosano didn't move, squinting. “Are you still hurt? If so, I'll treat you.” A pause. “I don't care if it's self-inflicted wounds.”
That forced a giggle from his throat, high-pitched like glass. “My, how kind”, he crooned, “You must be such a good person, all non-judgemental.”
She didn't respond; giving him enough time to reel himself back in, smile forced into something more warm, kind. “Sorry, sorry. Just playing around. I'm completely fine, though, don't worry.”
“There's blood on your sleeve.”
“I'm exactly the way I want to be.”
A sigh fell from glossy lips, and he already turned around to his desk once more when she did the same, back facing him. Before leaving, she looked over her shoulder, however.
“Dazai”, she said, “I expect you to come see me when you're injured. That's the way things work here. Got it?”
“I guess.”
“You wanted to see me, President.”
Dazai stood neatly in front of the desk, arms crossed behind his back. He had refused to kneel for Mori; he wasn't going to start that habit now.
“Dazai”, Fukuzawa said, calm. For now. “Yes. Thank you for coming.”
“Of course. What is it that you wanted to talk to me about?”
He made sure to keep his head up, cold eyes never leaving Fukuzawa’s face. Predators sensed weakness.
“Have you settled in well?”
Oh, lovely. They were going to do this the hard way.
“I have.”
“That's good. How are you feeling?”
“Better than ever.”
“I'm glad to hear it.” Fukuzawa cleared his throat. “The reason I wanted to talk to you was that there have been a few concerns over your behaviour recently.”
Almost, just almost, he allowed laughter to bubble from his mouth. Traitors.
“Oh?” he said instead, mimicking surprise, “Why’s that?”
“I've been told that you used excessively violent threats in order to make a criminal comply with your wills recently. While I understand that the change in tactics might be difficult, we at the Detective Agency don't tell people we're going to pull their nails out. Do you understand?”
God, this was boring.
Briefly, he wondered just who had ratted him out. It had only been Ranpo, Kunikida and him on that mission; a police case, too difficult for the investigators and passed down to Ranpo.
Both of them were likely to have done it.
He supposed it didn't really matter.
“Apart from that, there have been complaints about your — interests outside of work. While I wouldn't presume to try and tell you what to do in your free time, I won't let the Agency get a bad reputation because you keep trying to hang yourself in front of the café downstairs, or poison yourself at—”
“Yeah, yeah”, Dazai interrupted, voice and eyes void, “I get it. So, are you going to kick me out? Or worse?”
Fukuzawa’s frown only deepened. “What do you mean?”
“How do you expect me to make up for that? I used to shoot my subordinate five times whenever he messed up. What do you want to do, President?”
“Dazai, I don't intend to hurt you.”
“What?” he taunted, smirk stretching unnaturally, “Do you want me to get on my knees and beg? Or kneel and apologise with my lips around your—”
“Dazai”, Fukuzawa said, voice sharp enough that every other person would have flinched. “I don't want to hear anything like that again. I've told you what I needed to. Nothing else is going to happen. You may go.”
Dazai pushed his lips forward into a pout, eyes wild. “Others would have taken that opportunity, you know?”
Fukuzawa did not respond, gaze stubbornly kept on papers and letters on his desk.
Dazai made sure to close the door quietly behind him, silent violence.
The sign of the Bar Lupin was flickering, red light dimming every couple of seconds.
Dazai wasn't sure anymore for just how long he had been standing in front of the entrance now, but the rain had already drenched him completely, cold settling into his bones.
He visited the place ever so often, making sure to do so at least every second week, painful familiarity. The bartender greeted him politely every time, serving him the usual, never mentioning the absence of his former friends.
Whether it was more or less gloomy than sitting by Odasaku’s grave, he hadn't decided yet.
Sensei’s eyes, yellow and ever watchful, seemed to be burning holes into his coat as he left.
The corner store offered alcohol that was three times cheaper than the bar, and five times less depressing. Given that he was already there, he picked up some of the canned crab he enjoyed, even when, on nights like this, all food tasted bland, like consuming it at all was a bother rather than a blessing.
Two bottles of nihonshu and one can of crab was almost a full meal, certainly. The alcohol at least filled his stomach just fine when he made it home, the walls of his rooms not made of metal anymore; an odd realisation.
Odasaku would have scolded him for not taking enough care of himself — maybe. Ango might have, too, if only because he didn't want Dazai's bad habits to impact his life any more than they already did. He had driven him home quite a few times, after all.
Without ever trying anything, too. If Dazai had known that it was a conscious decision, a certain kindness, rather than fear, given how the Demon Prodigy was stronger, faster than Sakaguchi Ango, Intelligence Operative, even when intoxicated, even when he had been sixteen years old, he would have viewed him in an at least slightly better light.
It wasn't like he blamed Ango, though, he thought while pouring himself another cup, the scent of alcohol in his small apartment overwhelming. He would have easily defeated Ango back then, even when his sight had been blurry like it was now; would have snatched his arm and broken his wrist, his elbow the moment he dared to let his hands wander.
Odasaku would have been an entirely different story, but Odasaku had never driven him home, too tipsy himself. That, and he had always held an unreasonable aversion to the shipping container Dazai had called his humble yet trusted home.
A shame. One time, he had even decorated the tiny table in there with Odasaku’s favourite flowers.
When asked politely, Yosano gave up some of her bandages without complaint. She even pretended not to notice the blood dripping off pale wrists, instead keeping her firm gaze on an exaggerated smile turned grimace that didn't reach even near his eyes.
How kind.
Perhaps the people at the Detective Agency were alright, after all.