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[badbadbathhouse]

Why, hello there, kittens! I'm Kanji, esteemed reporter of all things fabulous and ever so delightfully naughty, and I'm here with a most special update for a fandom just beginning its long, hard... journey into adulthood~!

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[2/?]

[anonymous]

[Typo fix in first part: *he’s stopped looking…]

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Houses change less than their owners. Without the ability to adapt, they remain constantly antiquated. The Dojima residence is still quaint, small, and reeking of a presence that isn’t there, but used to be. It’s worse now that Nanako has moved out, leaving Dojima alone to brew his own coffee every morning, and leave the lukewarm half-cup beside the kitchen sink until it stains the inside with dark brown rings.

“There’s a futon in the guest room. You have to roll it out by yourself,” says Dojima, throwing the house keys on the couch as his daughter’s car pulls away on the street. Adachi hasn’t moved from the doorway. He only vaguely remembers this place, eating sushi in the living room, dragging his tipsy partner to the couch, thinking about whether or not Dojima’s nephew could fit in that television in the corner.

“What are you doing?” asks Dojima, turning around, in the way that means Why are you still standing there? instead of It better not be murder. Adachi blinks at him and then averts his eyes. He toes off his shoes at the front step and pads inside. This wasn’t where he thought he’d be an hour later if he were asked an hour ago. This wasn’t where he thought he’d be any time within the next twenty years if he were asked an hour ago, truthfully, but then again, his plans weren’t always the best thought-out at the get-go.

“Can I borrow a toothbrush?” he asks unceremoniously, and Dojima digs an extra out of some closet. It’s made of red plastic, smells like moth balls, and it’s child-sized.

The moment he opens his mouth to complain, Dojima says, “Take it or leave it.”

Adachi made a promise in a letter once, to a group of high school kids, and while he has no great respect for keeping promises, he isn’t at the liberty to do otherwise. He shuts his mouth, takes it into the bathroom, brushes his teeth, glances at the dusty futon in the small room that Dojima’s nephew used to occupy and sleeps on the couch instead. Inaba nights are quiet. In the morning, he gets up, brushes his teeth, and heads towards the door as quietly as he can.

He takes the toothbrush with him.

“You’re up early,” says Dojima, one arm slung over the back of his chair as he peers at Adachi over the top of his newspaper. There is a cup of coffee on the table beside his arm.

Adachi looks up, and if he is surprised, it doesn’t show. “I could say the same.” He’s better, if not good, at listening now, and Dojima had said one night. He’s always been pretty good at counting, too, in addition to acting, academics, condescension and occasional harassment. Less than half of his first free twenty-four hours have passed, but the night’s over.

“Got to work,” says Dojima. It figures, thinks Adachi, that even when brushing up against sixty, the man refuses to stay at home. He knows for certain that Inaba cannot possibly be swamped enough to need old veterans on the field, so this has to be stubbornness. Fucking workaholic. “What are you going to do today?” Dojima asks, in a way that means Better not wreck my house while I’m gone instead of Better not be plotting serial killings.

Adachi stares at him, saying nothing. He’s a lot less talkative now that he’s older, and doesn’t have to pretend to be anything that he’s not. After all, it pays in prison to talk less. After a moment, he glances around the living room. “Wreck your house, probably,” he says, and while the curve of his mouth doesn’t quite reach his ears, he’s always been more acquainted with smirking.