Archive of Our Own ^beta

Denji hates doing anything that requires thinking. That’s probably why he likes Makima-san so much, if he's honest with himself. Everything was easier when he had someone else taking care of him. He slams the snooze button on the alarm clock beside him without even opening his eyes, silencing the grating blare.

Maybe it’s because he’s been somebody else’s dog for as long as he can remember, but he’s most comfortable when he can lose himself in mindless tasks and routines. While other, more normal people would probably use such opportunities to zone out and think about important things as they go through the motions, when Denji zones out he feels nothing but blissful quiet. That crazy crossbow lady had said something to him back then, something about ignorance. He doesn’t dwell on it, because that would mean more thought.

Denji’s well aware he is not normal, and not just because of the ripcord sticking out of his chest. School sucks. Everyone has already had a formal education and is leaps and bounds ahead of the kid still learning how to read kanji. Not to mention girls still don’t even look his way, and that shady dude who won’t let him tell anyone he’s Chainsaw Man has been stalking him since the first day. Maybe Denji should be worried, but he really just doesn't care. If there's a problem, he'll handle it when it comes, like always. No point wasting his time worrying about stuff that may or may not happen. Not when there's things to be done that easily take his mind off of said stuff.

Back when Denji was stuck in the debt trap with Pochita, the upside was that he’d known what to expect from his day to day life. The two of them had established their daily routine fairly quickly. Wake up to some old fart trying to knock the rotting wooden door off its hinges, try not to puke from the hunger pangs, go cut some trees down, kill a devil, get yelled at by yakuza assholes even after following their instructions to a T, dumpster dive for dinner, go home and puke (bonus points for blood), rinse, repeat.

Easy peasy. At the time the only thing he’d ever put his conscious attention and effort into was his financial debt. He’d painstakingly taught himself to read some kanji here and there because in order to survive he needed to know what the hell he was looking at when the yakuza handed him an invoice. Pochita, bless him, would try to help, curled up against Denji and catching raindrops leaking through the roof on his little devil tongue. Though Pochita couldn’t read or budget nor teach Denji how to do so, the moral support never went unnoticed.

Denji wonders what other people would think if they knew that as a child he’d had such little self-preservation that he’d feed Pochita three-fourths of their shared slice of bread and only save a couple measly bites for himself.

Foolish human, lacking in intelligence! He imagines one would say, scoffing in his face. The insult would lack any bite, though, unless you counted the way she’d try to chew his ear off after saying it.

Another one would look at him the same way he did when Denji admitted to eating a few squirrels as a kid. Feeding a devil over…You know what, I don’t care. Get in the car, we’re going out for ramen. That guy would act all uptight in his body language, shouldering Denji out of the way to get the door like he was pissed, but then pausing and waiting for Denji to shove him back before reaching for the doorknob.

Wait. Reliving memories counts as thinking, doesn't it? Denji’s thinking again. Dammit.

The snooze is up and the alarm clock sounds off again. He rolls over to turn it off properly, extracting himself from Nayuta’s clutches. 7:05 A.M. Time to get up for real. Never more than one snooze, that’s the rule.

When Denji sits up and stretches, he feels satisfaction in the popping and clicking sensations of his joints. He cracks just about everything he can, including his jaw as he yawns. He scrubs a hand over his face to wake up before getting to his feet, gently shaking off Nayuta's loose hold on his pant leg. He treads lightly between furry bodies to the bedroom’s balcony door and slides it open, reveling in the fresh air and birdsong for a minute before stepping back inside.

He’s careful not to disturb the dogs or Nayuta, who are still fast asleep even after the alarm has gone off twice. Denji rolls his eyes and closes the bedroom door behind him as gently as he can. Some guard dogs they are.

Meowy, however, seems to be up and at ‘em, if the trail of drying cat barf following her down the hall is anything to go by. Denji sighs, taking care not to step in it as he hops on his toes to the kitchen to grab the cleaner. He puts the kettle on while he’s at it. That’s another nice clicking sound: the gas burner flickering to life.

Once the hallway mess is taken care of, he fills Meowy’s bowl with some dry food. The sound produced by this action predictably brings the cat sprinting back from wherever she’d tried to slink off to. “Gotcha,” Denji mutters, grabbing her before she can dive into the bowl and ignoring her yowls of protest as he wipes the dried puke off of her paws with a wet rag.

He’s done the best he can, but when she straight up hisses at him he gives up and lets her have her breakfast, which will likely have made another appearance by the time he’s done pissing and brushing his teeth. As long as it’s not on the carpet. He thinks they’ve trained her well enough for that, like how she knows not to jump onto the stove but the rest of the countertop is fair game because they’d never been able to stop her. They’d put a lot of effort into house training that ungrateful little monster.

Or, at least one of them had.

Nope, Denji stops himself, not going there. He shakes his head as if doing so will physically toss that train of thought out of his brain and hums a vaguely familiar tune to himself as he brushes his teeth. After washing his face, he pauses to observe his reflection in the mirror, half-heartedly patting his unruly hair down with wet hands. Eh, good enough.

The water is boiling when he returns. Meowy has exceeded his expectations by neither throwing up nor stepping on the hot burner while he was gone. She’s curled up in a sun spot in the living room, napping. Denji tries not to feel too jealous.

Hot chocolate is easy to make, and Nayuta loves it. Denji doesn’t care for coffee or tea himself, but he’ll indulge in a hot beverage with her once in a while. Today is one of those days, so he grabs two mugs and dumps spoonfuls of cocoa mix into both. Before he finishes the hot chocolate, he shoves some bread down the toaster and pulls the butter and jam from the fridge, setting them on the counter before turning back to grab another container and placing it by the microwave. He kicks the fridge door shut behind him with his heel.

Denji turns off the stove and grabs the hot kettle with a towel, though if he burned himself he really wouldn’t care. It’s just a habit, part of the mindless routine, he supposes. The toast pops back up as he’s pouring the second cup of hot chocolate. It’s far too hot for Nayuta. Wisps of steam bully each other out of the ceramic mugs as if fighting to escape the liquid inside. Distantly, Denji wonders why. Hot chocolate is so good. Why would they want to leave?

There’s a telltale scratching noise coming from the bedroom that saves him from falling down another rabbit hole in his own head. “Don’t freak out,” he tells Meowy as he walks past. She doesn’t stir. Denji sighs and braces himself before opening the bedroom door.

Seven dogs come pouring out in a stampede, some panting or grunting and others quiet, but every one of them about to piss themselves. The mob sends a startled Meowy jumping two feet into the air despite Denji’s warning. The cat whines and smacks Tiramisu repeatedly when the dog goes to greet her.

Denji points at Cream Puff. “Leash,” he says. "Go get it." The husky darts into the open doorway of the spare room which was intended to be Nayuta's bedroom but is now littered with Denji's miscellaneous junk. Cream Puff returns faithfully with all seven of the dogs' leashes hanging from her mouth and trailing on the floor behind her.

“Good job,” Denji smiles, pleased. Maybe it’s only thanks to their last owner’s exceptional abilities, but for some regular ass dogs who aren’t even devils, their intelligence is impressive.

He’s hooking the last dog’s leash to its collar when Nayuta emerges from the bedroom, rubbing her eyes with closed fists. “Denji…?”

“Hey,” Denji says, herding the dogs toward the front door and holding onto their leashes for dear life. “Five minutes. I’ll be back by the time you’re out of the bathroom.”

Nayuta nods, still half-asleep, and turns to walk down the hall. While the dogs’ attention is on her, Denji manages to get the front door open without being trampled to death. Nice.

The dogs piss and shit and run in circles in the yard to their heart’s content. Denji takes a second to breathe in the fresh air again, closing his eyes and feeling the breeze. When he does, there's an image on the backs of his eyelids, clear as day.

His view of the scene is mostly obscured by a head of pink hair; she’s standing right in front of him, then. Probably stepping on his toes. On purpose, of course. Denji’s arms are locked around her, holding her in place while she squirms. He peeks around her head and finds the other guy kneeling on the floor in front of them; he's tying to tie her shoe while she kicks him with the other foot. He scowls but doesn’t complain, brow furrowed as he concentrates on the task at hand.

“I know you’re listening, Power,” the guy says mildly, like she’s not violently thrashing around elbows-deep in Denji’s vital organs. “Bunny ears, bunny ears, playing by a tree. Criss-crossed the tree, trying to catch me… What comes next?”

The delivery of the children's rhyme is flat but effective. He’s so calm on the outside, but Denji knows they’re late for work. He's probably mega-pissed and is just doing a bang-up job of hiding it.

“Stupid Topknot, I said I don’t know!” she whines, going to kick the guy again. He grabs her ankle before she can.

“You do,” he says. “I know you do. Take a deep breath and look at me.”

Strangely, she obeys, relaxing a fraction of a degree in Denji’s grip, just enough for him to breathe too. She sniffles as she observes the man in front of her, wary, and Denji looks down at him too.

Something pulls at the side of his mouth, causing it to twitch. Something they rarely see. The ghost of a smile. “I know you do,” he says again, and there’s a smug glint in his blue eyes. It normally makes Denji want to punch him, but right now they’re on the same side.

“Because you’re the smartest. Aren’t you?”

She stops moving completely, frozen like a deer in headlights, and Denji waits with bated breath as they stare one another down.

She sniffles again, but her tone flips instantly. “Of course I am!” she scoffs, haughty and contemptuous where she was pathetic and despairing mere moments ago. “Bunny ears, bunny ears, jumped into the hole! Popped out the other side beautiful and bold! Like me! Ha! The Nobel is mine! All mine!”

Denji peers over her shoulder again. Her shoelaces are tied into a neat bow, and that guy is trying so hard not to laugh that he just looks constipated. “Yeah,” he says, eyes bright again. “Just like you.”

Denji is jarringly thrust back into reality by a warm wetness on the back of his hand. His eyes fly open and he jerks his head to the side in alarm only to find Cookie sniffing him down, presumably having caught a whiff of breadcrumbs from earlier.

Denji exhales hard, scratching behind Cookie’s ears. “Dummy,” he mumbles, more to himself than her, before whistling to round up her siblings.

When he’s scooped the poop and wrestled them all back into the apartment, Denji quickly washes his hands and plates Nayuta’s breakfast, carrying it over to the table where she’s sat waiting for him.

She's eying him curiously. “You said you would be back when I came out,” she says quietly. Unlike what he would expect with a regular kid (not that he has experience with those either), there’s no accusation in her voice. Thank God. The last thing Denji needs is to upset the Control Devil.

“Shortcake was taking forever to sh—poop,” he lies, rubbing the back of his neck. “Ain’t that right, Shorty?” He looks to the dog for corroboration of his statement, but she merely tilts her head at him.

Denji pops the lid off of the jar of jam for Nayuta instead of having her try doing it herself today like he’d planned. The dogs crowd around them to beg, but they know better than to steal. He brings the mugs over too. “The good news is your hot cocoa is just cocoa now. I know that’s how you like it.” He wonders if he should just start buying chocolate milk, and whether she’d notice the difference.

Nayuta nods her approval, wrapping both of her little hands around her cup to bring it to her mouth. Something weird moves in Denji’s chest at the sight. The hell was that? Pochita?

Whatever. Denji leaves Nayuta to her methodical spreading of butter and jam and spins on his heel holding his own room-temperature hot chocolate. His socks glide easily against the floor, the motion of going back and forth from the kitchen well-practiced. The dogs follow him eagerly, gathering expectantly at their food bowls.

“Nobody fucking move,” Denji tells them, trying to keep the curse word hushed as he sets his mug down. “I’m not playing around. Sit and stay.”

The dogs freeze. Denji slowly brings the bag of kibble down from the cupboard. They’re all drooling on each other and the floor at the sight of it.

He’s bending down to pour the first bowl when he sees a paw move out of the corner of his eye. “Don’t even think about it, Pudding,” he snaps. The paw is quickly retracted. Not bad.

When all seven bowls are filled as equally as he can get them, Denji decides to end the torture. “You can eat,” he says firmly, and hauls ass out of the kitchen before he’s caught in the crossfire.

Now that Nayuta is up, Denji can go into the bedroom to get their dirty laundry. Neither one of them owns many clothes. That’s at least one thing that makes his life easier than it was before.

Meowy follows him all the way to the washing machine, making a brief pit stop to play with a sock he’s dropped. “Give it,” Denji demands, squatting down awkwardly with the hamper balanced on his hip.

He tosses the clothes in the machine and grabs the box of detergent powder. He lifts the plastic scoop to eye level, squinting to make sure it’s even across before turning it upside down. The apartment is soon filled with the dull hum of the washing machine spinning their laundry around and around.

When Denji gets back to the kitchen, everyone has finished eating and the dogs have thankfully dispersed. “Full?” he checks, looking at Nayuta. “Don’t lie,” he adds. “We have more food.”

Not much, he thinks bitterly. But if it came down to that, he’d feed Nayuta the way he used to feed Pochita. Eat just enough to survive, and give her the rest. There’s no other option for him.

Nayuta shakes her head. “Full,” she confirms.

Denji nods and helps her carry the dishes over to the sink. Nayuta gets the lid of the jar to align and closes the jam up on her own, going to put it back in the fridge without being asked. Then she scampers over to the spare room, returning with her coloring book and a box of crayons. She sets her things down at the table and sits down in a smooth, graceful movement. Nothing in her expression gives away how she feels about this activity, if she feels any way about it at all.

Denji watches her and tries not to think.

He’s not ready for his mindless routine to end. He’s feeling good, running on autopilot like this. What else does he have to do this morning?

He sighs and finds that he can crack his neck again, so he does. Might as well start prepping for lunch.

He pulls out the cutting board and the sack of potatoes he’d bought two weeks ago. They need to use that shit or he’ll feel like he wasted his money. Denji drops a clean bowl into the sink and grabs the vegetable peeler from the drawer. He stands over the sink and starts to hum again.

He’s working on the second potato when Nayuta speaks. “Denji, what day is it?”

He stops humming. “Hm? Uh… Saturday,” he replies, struggling to come to the conclusion himself until he remembers that he’s not at school today and that he was yesterday. Process of elimination.

Nayuta’s follow up question: “What’s for lunch?”

“Curry,” Denji answers, not looking up. He doesn’t bother explaining that the potatoes are about to go bad, and that just because he can stomach spoiled food doesn’t mean she can. Or that either of them should.

Because he’s so focused on peeling potatoes, he doesn’t see Nayuta’s face, but he can hear the little smile in her voice as she cheers quietly, seemingly to herself. “Yes.”

The peeler clatters loudly against the bottom of the sink. The potato Denji was holding slips from his hand hits the edge of the steel bowl below with a thud, causing the whole thing to tip over and add to the cascade of ruckus.

Why does his chest feel so tight? He tries to breathe, but it’s shallow, like he can’t get enough air. He's felt like this before. His hands grasp at the edges of the counter, grip tightening until it’s painful.

Denji hates doing anything that requires thinking. He doesn’t want to think. But he does.

Wake up at 7 A.M. on a Saturday. Never hit snooze more than once. Alone on the balcony, just for a moment, fresh air. Feed the cat. Don’t touch the hot kettle with your bare hands. Breakfast ready before the others are awake. Measure the laundry detergent every time. Don’t let the dishes pile up. Everything back in its place. Meal prep.

What’s for lunch?

Curry.

Yes!

Rinse. Repeat.

Denji takes another shaky breath and stares down at the half-peeled potato lying pathetically in the sink.

That guy with the stick up his ass… did all of this. For two teenagers, who were nowhere near as low-maintenance as Nayuta. Every single day. And then taught himself how to do it all with one fucking arm.

For him. For them.

Why?

A spell breaks, and the motor that’s been powering Denji all morning sputters to a stop.

He's been in survival mode all his life. A lifestyle of less than the bare minimum. He'd programmed himself for it until he was so far removed from his desolate reality that he could allow himself to dream of a better one.

This routine of his isn't instinct. It was learned.

A tiny voice comes from beside him. “Denji?”

“I’m okay,” Denji says reflexively, realizing he’s likely worried her. He glances at his white knuckles for a moment before releasing the counter, palms cramping immediately. He tries not to grimace as he squats down to Nayuta’s level. “I accidentally dropped that stuff I was holding. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

Nayuta looks at him blankly, but cocks her head the same way Shortcake had earlier. “You didn’t scare me,” she says, like that should be obvious to him.

Denji blinks dumbly. “Oh. Well, uh, good.”

Nayuta points at something over his shoulder. Denji turns around and sees the microwave and the container he’d pulled out of the fridge earlier. He turns back to face Nayuta.

The rings in her eyes are so achingly familiar. Her voice is measured and careful, like she’s the one afraid of spooking him and not the other way around.

“You can eat.”

Denji gapes at her for a beat. Then another. Then he laughs. Not a sudden choppy laugh that bubbles out of him against his will and surprises everyone in the room. Not like that guy used to laugh. Not like the exaggerated evil cackles that little brat used to do either. This laugh is just Denji, loud and brash and unapologetic, letting himself feel what he feels instead of fighting it.

Something about Nayuta using the same phrase and tone he uses on the dogs is fucking hilarious, buried under layers of irony this little reincarnated girl will never understand. And will never have to, if Denji can help it.

There are tears in his eyes by the time his laughter dies down. Nayuta is watching him cautiously, clearly confused even if her facial expression betrays nothing.

“Thanks, Nayuta,” Denji says, grinning. He means it. “I will.”

Nayuta throws her arms around his neck, and Denji holds her tight as ever.

It’s not the same, holding Nayuta. Not the same as it was with the girl Denji used to hold every night. (For starters, Nayuta doesn’t stink.) But it’s nice, and he knows he’ll get used to it just as easily as he had once before.

You were born a dog, the yakuza used to tell him, and you’ll die a dog.

Pochita saved him from the dying part. The whole dog thing… Denji’s working on that. Working to recreate an environment he had been gifted with not long ago, where he'd had someone who treated him like the person he was instead of a dog or a devil or both.

Maybe he’ll get back there someday, maybe not. Either way he’ll die knowing he had it twice—once with Pochita, and once with those guys. He won’t speak too soon, given his shit luck, but it's been pretty damn good so far with Nayuta. Fingers crossed.

When they separate, Nayuta hurries back to coloring like the crayons have set a curfew for her. Denji, ever obedient, takes the little girl's permission and heats his food up in the microwave. It's last night’s leftovers from when they’d ordered their usual Friday night takeout. He doesn't know when he started eating a balanced enough diet that he developed the sense and willpower to save some for later instead of binging like he'd never get the chance to eat again, but he supposes it's an improvement for him.

The unpeeled potatoes leer at him from the countertop, but Denji's never been the type to be bothered by his own procrastination. He brings his food out to the balcony, barefoot against his better judgment. He plops his ass down in the lonely deck chair, and he lets himself think.

At Public Safety, Fiends weren’t treated much better than Division 4’s devils were. That had never meant anything to Denji, because no one could even explain how or why he was neither a devil nor a Fiend. He’d never really understand all the subtle differences, or ever care to.

It meant something, however, when he'd learned that Aki and Power would not be buried or given any kind of memorial by the Bureau due to their Fiend status.

From what little Denji remembered in his state of shock, Aki’s body was taken away to be studied by all those freaks obsessed with the Gun Devil. Probably dissected or whatever creepy shit they do in those shitty sci-fi movies Denji and Power used to watch. Maybe they kept the guns. When they were done they probably burned him up and dumped his ashes in a river or something else utterly devoid of respect for the dude who worked his ass off for them for years. Kishibe knows the details. He’d said so when he brought them Aki’s will, but Denji didn’t want to know. Not then and not ever.

Power’s remains were disgustingly rotten beyond recognition when he’d gone back for her body. He’d stuffed that shit into trash bags and buried her in a patch of woods where he thought she and Meowy might have liked to live. An intentionally shallow grave, to ensure that the animals who once fed her would have their turn. He only threw up twice thinking about it. Kishibe called it poetic, as if Denji would have any idea what the fuck that was supposed to mean. And as he’d left the pile of dirt behind, he'd wondered for the very first time what kind of life the young girl’s corpse had lived before the Blood Devil killed her.

It didn’t really matter, did it? Any of it. Not in the grand scheme of things, or whatever. Maybe that’s why Denji didn’t keep anything to remember them by but Meowy and his own memories.

He’d gone back, after they loaded Aki into that sleek black van. He’d dragged Power kicking and screaming back to the ruins of Aki's home and found absolutely nothing salvageable. The Gun Devil had destroyed any sign that Aki had ever lived there, that he’d ever ironed and folded their uniforms for them or taught them how to play card games designed for children ages five to eight or rubbed their backs when they were sick over the toilet in the middle of the night. At least he wasn’t reborn in Hell like the devil who took him was. Denji hopes he ended up somewhere nice. Maybe with the other Hayakawas, where he’d have people taking care of him for a change.

When Denji had returned to his new apartment with Makima-san’s body, after the Blood Devil had sacrificed herself for him, it didn’t feel right for all of Power’s things to be there without Power herself. Especially since Aki wasn't around either. So in between cooking and eating Makima-san, Denji had donated what he could from Power’s belongings and chucked the rest. It hurt just as much as it did to eat Makima-san, but a totally different kind of pain. Something Denji had never felt before, or even knew that he was capable of feeling. He’d held onto Power’s last clean Public Safety uniform the longest, relieved she’d at least died in the civilian clothes she found most comfortable. Now, the Blood Devil is free to prance around butt ass naked in Hell the way she always wanted.

It’s okay if it was all a lie. A fake family created by Makima-san. Their lives and deaths might have been meaningless to her, but not to Denji. They were all he had, and it was real.

If not for Aki teaching him basic life skills, Power teaching him patience, and the both of them teaching him different kinds of affection and social cues and all this bullshit Denji had never bothered to consider before, the reborn Control Devil would be out there sacrificing millions to fulfill her innate goal of world domination right about now.

Instead, she’s sitting cross-legged and carefree on the other side of the sliding glass door, singing a silly commercial jingle she’s picked up from the TV and scribbling on pictures of flowers and butterflies.

There’s some comfort in that.

The breeze is cool but not cold, and the birds are still singing. It's peaceful and pleasant and everything Denji still feels unaccustomed to and undeserving of. He lets the air fill his lungs and leave him as quickly as it had come, only for another breath to take its place. Or maybe it's not really being replaced. Maybe breathing is just... something that keeps going. Continuing, like a perpetual motion machine.

Denji doesn't close his eyes because he knows what he'll see on the backs of his eyelids. As if he could ever forget.

“Hey Aki, Powy,” he mutters to the wind and the birds and the insects Power loved to squish under her chunky sneakers.

“Don’t go getting the wrong idea, alright? You guys still suck. You… You’re such a pain in the ass that I can’t forget you even when I try,” he whispers, swallowing around the lump in his throat. A gust of wind skews his hair into his eyes. Denji doesn't mind.

“It’s annoying as hell. But… I can’t do this without you, so. You guys get to stay with me,” he decides as the words are leaving his mouth. “Like Pochita does. So I can talk to you all the time. You’re welcome, heh.”

He knows it’s stupid to believe that’s even remotely possible. Power would’ve happily told him as much while picking her nose and feeding the boogers to Meowy. Aki, that damned sap, wouldn’t have said a thing; he’d just finish combing the knots out of Power’s wet hair and then take a beer and a cigarette onto the balcony.

Maybe... Maybe someday, when Denji has some cash to spare, he'll take Nayuta on a trip to snowy Hokkaido. He thinks she'd look cute all bundled up, watching the falling snowflakes with wonder. He'd hold her hand and lead her to the stone that reads Hayakawa Family Grave, and he'd pretend. Pretend his family was actually in there, and pretend that he'll be able to join them someday.

But he's not ready for that yet. He's not sure if he'll ever be.

Denji smiles. He’s so fucking sad, but these thoughts hurt in a nice way. How is it even possible to feel like that? Makima-san had told him he had a heart, but he doesn't know if he can trust her word about anything anymore. Is he just crazy like everyone says?  

Not worth dwelling on, he decides after a moment, grabbing his chopsticks. He goes to eat, but pauses, imagining how he would have been scolded for his lack of manners and thinking of all the stuff he never did growing up that he’s now trying and struggling to teach Nayuta.

Today is Saturday, and they have time. He'll cut himself a break and teach her something he actually has some degree of expertise in.

Like how to tie her shoes.

The birds go quiet for a moment. Denji brings his hands together. “Itadakimasu,” he drones against the silence, before finally digging in.

Steak for breakfast. Hell yeah.

“Dogs are wise. They crawl away into a quiet corner and lick their wounds and do not rejoin the world until they are whole once more.” —Agatha Christie