Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was an ordinary day at the Armed Detective Agency (ADA), with sunlight streaming through the windows and casting a warm glow over the bustling office. Ranpo sat at his cluttered desk, blissfully munching on snacks, his trademark dark brown hair slightly disheveled from hours of concentration. Nearby, Yosano was busily reorganizing her office, her brows furrowed in determination as she sorted through papers and supplies. Atsushi and Kyōka lent a hand, stacking books and filing documents, their camaraderie evident in their exchanged smiles and quiet laughter. 

Meanwhile, Kunikida diligently worked at his desk, scribbling notes and crafting meticulous plans, completely absorbed in his tasks. The clock on the wall ticked steadily, reading 12:36 PM, a reminder of the mundane passage of time in an otherwise unpredictable world. Dazai’s absence was noted but hardly surprising; he often disappeared for extended periods or would saunter in late, as though time held no authority over him.

As the door to the agency creaked open, the atmosphere shifted subtly. An elderly woman stepped inside, her silver hair pulled back in a tidy bun, revealing timeworn features that spoke of wisdom and kindness. She cradled a small child in her arms, both of them dressed in simple, everyday clothing. The child wore a green sweater adorned with playful animal ears and a tail. Still, his face was hidden shyly against the woman’s neck, suggesting a reluctance to engage with the unfamiliar surroundings.

“Excuse me,” the woman called out, her voice steady yet tinged with concern. “I’m looking for a detective.”

Kunikida, who had just finished his work ahead of schedule, noticed her and instinctively rose from his desk. With a polite demeanor, he approached the pair. “How may the Armed Detective Agency assist you, ma'am?” he inquired, his tone professional yet warm.

The woman offered a gentle smile. “Oh, hello, it’s about this boy I found.”

Kunikida raised an eyebrow, curiosity piqued. “You found him?”

“Yes,” she affirmed with a hint of urgency, “he was wandering the streets alone.”

Kunikida's brow furrowed at that. “So he is separated from his parents?”

“Uhm, no...” The woman hesitated, her gaze shifting to the boy.

Kunikida pressed further, puzzled. “No?”

“He was using what I believe is Japanese Sign Language,” she clarified, her voice softening as she glanced at the child.

At that moment, Kunikida’s understanding dawned. “Oh, I see.” The boy was likely either mute or deaf, unable to communicate conventionally.

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” the woman reassured the boy, kneeling to meet his gaze. “This nice man will help you.” She carefully placed him on the floor, allowing him the space to adjust.

As he stood, his curly, wavy hair peeked out from beneath the hood of his sweater, framing a face that seemed both vulnerable and curious. He clutched the woman’s outstretched hand tightly, his little fingers trembling slightly. When the boy finally turned to Kunikida, the room fell silent as everyone collectively gasped at his appearance.

He had dark tan skin, deeper in hue than Kunikida's, likely a testament to hours spent under the sun. His soft, black curls formed a messy halo around his head, reminiscent of a wild animal’s untamed fur. The distinct animal ears of the hoodie imposed an air of innocence, while his wide, doe-like gray-green eyes glimmered with a mixture of fear and curiosity.

But what truly struck them was the striking resemblance he bore to their missing colleague, Dazai. The same delicate features, the same playful tilt of the lips—this child carried an uncanny likeness that sent a ripple of shock through the room. Dazai's absent presence felt palpable, as if he were somehow still with them in that moment, through the innocent eyes of this young boy.

The boy pressed himself shyly against the woman, his small frame trembling slightly as he sought comfort in her presence. Kunikida knelt on one knee, his brow furrowing with concern as he studied the young boy's unusual appearance—his wide, innocent eyes framed by disheveled hair that suggested he had been wandering for some time. 

Taking a deep breath to steady himself, Kunikida offered a gentle smile, attempting to put the boy at ease. “My name is Kunikida,” he said softly, his voice steady yet warm. “I’m a detective. Can you tell me why you were all alone out here?” His tone was patient, keenly aware that the boy needed assurance in that moment of uncertainty.

The boy looked into Kunikida’s eyes, their gazes locking for a moment in tense silence. Both possessed striking gray-green eyes that seemed to reflect a world of unspoken worries. With a deep sigh, the boy finally signed, ‘My mama is sick.’

Kunikida blinked in surprise, momentarily taken aback. “She’s sick?” he asked, a note of concern creeping into his voice.

‘He, mama is not a she,’ the boy clarified, a hint of frustration breaking through his calm demeanor.

“Oh, I see,” Kunikida replied, raising an eyebrow in realization. “And why are you by yourself?”

‘Mama is sick, don’t know what to do,’ the boy signed again, his small hands trembling slightly. His expression was a mixture of determination and fear, a child thrust into a daunting adult world far too soon.

Kunikida felt a frown form on his face as concern washed over him. A child wandering the streets alone, desperately seeking help for an ailing parent—it was a heart-wrenching situation. Just as he was about to inquire further, Yosano appeared seemingly out of nowhere, her presence both commanding and reassuring. “How sick, sweetheart?” she asked gently, her eyes softening at the sight of the boy's worry.

'Fever,' the boy signed nervously. The detective knelt down to his eye level, attempting to connect with him. “How old are you, sweetheart?” 

'Four,' he replied, his little hands sighing in his lap. The silence that followed was deafening, amplifying the weight of the situation. A mere 4-year-old was in desperate need of assistance, trying to care for his ailing mother.

With a determined expression, the boy reached into his small, worn pocket and retrieved a child identification card. He held it out to the detectives, fingers trembling slightly. 

[‘Dazai, Ookami’]  

[Address: #####]  

[Parent(s) phone number: ###-###-####]  

[Parent(s) name: Dazai Osamu]  

Chapter Text

The elderly woman had left the office not long ago, her frail figure disappearing down the dimly lit hallway. In the meantime, Kunikida gripped the steering wheel tightly, his brow furrowed in concentration, while Yosano sat in the passenger seat, casting worried glances toward the back. Atsushi was cradling Ookami, Dazai's young son, on his lap; the child had no car seat, a clear oversight in the hurried chaos of their departure.

As they navigated the bustling streets, Ookami squirmed restlessly, his small hands gripping Atsushi’s shirt. The car ride felt like an eternity, and the little boy's soft whimpers masked his anxiety; he could hardly bear the thought of being away from his mama, who was at home, sick and alone.

Kunikida's fingers drummed against the steering wheel, a rhythmic tapping that matched the rapid pace of his thoughts. 'Since when did Dazai have a child, and how did this happen?' he pondered, a knot of confusion tightening in his stomach. The idea that Dazai, with his usual carefree demeanor and reckless lifestyle, could be a father was surreal. Kunikida tried to push the questions aside as they approached their destination, but they lingered uncomfortably.

Yosano, glancing back at the boy, felt her own bout of anxiety bubbling to the surface. Dazai, who often seemed incapable of taking care of himself, now had the responsibility of a child? It didn’t sit right with her. She worried not only about Dazai’s ability to care for Ookami but also about his current state; was he in distress, or worse, in a condition that could endanger both himself and his son?

The unrelenting weight of uncertainty hung in the air as they finally As the car turned onto Dazai’s street, the atmosphere in the vehicle shifted with anticipation. Ookami, a bundle of energy, bounced excitedly on Atsushi's lap, his bright eyes sparkling with joy. Atsushi's heart raced with a mix of worry and affection; he instinctively held the boy tighter, making sure he wouldn’t tumble off.

In the front seat, Kunikida cast a glance in the rearview mirror, a gentle sigh escaping his lips, accompanied by a hint of a smile. They were just a few minutes away from Dazai's apartment, and the promise of adventure hung in the air.

The car finally rolled to a stop in the modest parking lot of the apartment complex. Above, the sky loomed heavy and gray, thick clouds promising rain at any moment.

The building itself was unassuming—a three-story structure with faded brick and a worn exterior, a stark contrast to the luxurious apartment Dazai had previously occupied. Without missing a beat, Ookami flung open the car door and practically leaped out, his enthusiasm infectious. He dashed towards the entrance of the shared apartment he called home with his mother.

The others followed, Kunikida adjusting his glasses and smoothing his shirt before stepping out. Yosano, with a warm smile, watched Ookami with amusement while Atsushi hurried after the boy, his protective instincts kicking in as he worried about the risk of an unexpected tumble.

"Dazai Presidency," the mailbox declared, with a slightly tarnished brass plate affixed next to the door. A small, unassuming potted plant sat beside it, its leaves lush yet slightly drooping, surrounded by an array of colorful pebbles. As Ookami approached the pot, he knelt down and picked up one of the rocks, excitement radiating from him.

Upon closer inspection, it became clear that it was a cleverly disguised fake rock, fitted with a hidden compartment. With eager hands, he opened it to reveal a set of keys nestled inside, glinting slightly in the muted light. Grinning widely, Ookami inserted the keys into the lock, turning them with a satisfying click that echoed his enthusiasm as he unlocked the door to their simple but cherished home.

The apartment was surprisingly tidy, with polished surfaces and neatly arranged furniture, but the chaotic array of toys strewn across the living room floor hinted unmistakably at the presence of a child. In the midst of the colorful jigsaw pieces and stuffed animals, Ookami darted toward the mess. He eagerly seized a well-loved wolf plushie, its fur worn and soft, and hugged it tightly against his chest.

As the three adults carefully assessed the home, they exchanged glances of incredulity; it was clean, a stark contrast to the disarray they typically associated with Dazai. Ookami approached them, his little hands tugging insistently on Kunikida’s sleeves, his expression earnest as he signed, 'Room' in quick motions.

Understanding the urgency, Kunikida nodded, a flicker of concern crossing his face as he contemplated the situation. Dazai might be holed up in his bedroom, likely oblivious to the chaos outside. Yosano, always the nurturing figure, leaned down closer to Ookami, her voice soothing yet probing. "What room, sweetie?" With wide, earnest eyes,

Ookami replied, 'bed, maybe,' his small brows knitting together as worry creased his young face. Leading the way, he guided them to Dazai’s bedroom, but the door hung ajar. As Ookami rushed in, his heart sank; the room was empty. A muffled whimper escaped his lips. He quickly backtracked and suggested, 'Maybe bathroom,' his voice trembling.

Feeling his small hands shake, he recalled the promise he’d made to his mama to stay in bed while he sought help. Kunikida, perceptive and gentle, noticed the boy’s distress. He knelt down to Ookami's level, his large hands reaching out to envelop the child's smaller ones, offering reassurance.

"It's okay, we're going to help your mom. I promise," he said, his voice steady and calming. Ookami looked up at Kunikida, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. A little sniffle escaped from his button nose, and he nodded, squeezing the plushie tighter as if drawing strength from it.

Yosano observed the exchange with a warm smile, admiring Kunikida’s innate ability to comfort children and make them feel safe amidst the storm of uncertainty. With a newfound determination, Ookami led them toward the bathroom, his heart racing but hopeful.

Meanwhile, Atsushi decided to stay back, feeling the urgency of the moment but also recognizing the importance of the little things. He knelt down and began to tidy up the sprawling mess of toys in the living room, determined to create a more welcoming environment for when they returned.

Ookami pushed open the bathroom door, glancing back at the two adults who followed closely behind him. Inside, he found Dazai sprawled awkwardly on the floor, his head and arms resting heavily over the toilet. His disheveled hair hung limply, clinging to his forehead, and one trembling hand was tangled in the strands as he retched, the sounds echoing off the tiled walls.

Concerned, Ookami abruptly released Kunikida’s hand and dropped his small plush wolf onto the floor. Heart racing, he rushed to his mama, kneeling beside him, and instinctively began to rub Dazai’s back. The warmth of his small frame pressed anxiously against Dazai’s larger one, providing a small comfort amidst the chaos.

Yosano, ever the pragmatist, quickly sprang into action, retrieving her medical bag from where it rested on the counter. She moved with purpose, her professional demeanor a calm beacon in the turmoil. Dazai slowly lifted his head, surprise flashing in his hazy eyes as they landed on his coworkers.

“What are you guys doing here?” he croaked, his voice rough and strained, likely a byproduct of his earlier retching.

“Your son came to us for help,” Kunikida replied, his tone steady but laced with concern. Yosano wasted no time, skillfully placing a thermometer against Dazai’s forehead. A moment later, she pulled it away, revealing a concerning reading of “103.5°F.”

Dazai's eyes flickered nervously, darting away from Kunikida’s intense gaze. The fear of being discovered weighed heavily on him, a tight knot forming in his stomach as he realized they might learn the truth about Ookami.

Kunikida’s expression softened as he noted Dazai's discomfort. “It looks like you have a cold,” he announced, delivering the diagnosis with a mix of sympathy and authority. Dazai nodded slowly, his defenses crumbling as he allowed their care to wash over him.

Meanwhile, Ookami nestled closer, his little arms wrapping around Dazai's chest, seeking solace in the familiarity of his presence. Yosano let out a soft sigh, a smile breaking through her concerned expression as she surveyed the pair. “Let’s get the two of you in bed,” she suggested soothingly, ready to provide the nurturing atmosphere they both needed.

Chapter Text

Kunikida gently assisted Dazai in rising to his feet, offering his steady support as Dazai shuffled toward the inviting embrace of his bed. The room was softly illuminated, shadows dancing on the walls and casting gentle silhouettes contributing to the cozy ambiance. When Dazai finally sank onto the mattress, a wave of relief washed over him, palpable and soothing. Eagerly, Ookami crawled beside him, seeking the warmth and comfort only his mother could provide. The young boy nestled into Dazai's embrace, his small form resting like a tender blanket against his mama's chest.

A tender smile bloomed on Dazai's face, his weary eyes shimmering with a mix of affection and warmth as he wrapped his arms around Ookami, drawing him closer. His fingers wove through the boy's tousled hair, the familiar texture soothing his frazzled spirit and igniting a sense of peace. Despite the fever that rendered him fragile and drained, Dazai’s instincts to nurture his son shone brightly amidst the fog of his illness.

Yosano stood nearby, her gaze softening at the heartwarming tableau before her. "He's very clingy, huh?" she remarked, her voice laced with gentle affection.

Dazai glanced down at his child, his eyes twinkling with warmth as he pressed a tender kiss to the crown of Ookami’s head. "Yup, he always has been," he replied, a hint of pride threading through his words.

The scene radiated a profound sense of comfort, saturating the room with an almost tangible warmth. Dazai settled into the moment, a deep, soothing hum escaping his lips—a melody from his childhood, a lullaby sung by his father, stirring echoes of life in Korea before he was born, a journey to Japan his father took. The tune enveloped them like a soft, warm blanket, evoking layers of cherished memories.

Kunikida observed from a distance, his arms crossed thoughtfully as he soaked in the intimate atmosphere. Yosano lingered close to Dazai’s bedside, her presence acting as a stabilizing force within the room. Meanwhile, the little boy lay blissfully against his mother's chest, his small fingers clutching his shirt as he sank deeper into his warmth.

As Kunikida watched the tender scene unfold, a flicker of longing surged within him, a deep yearning for connection. It felt as if he were missing a vital piece of himself, drawn to the enveloping warmth of their embrace—a silent call, inviting him to join in the love and affection that radiated between them.

Kunikida stood in the warm, comforting atmosphere of Dazai's kitchen, busying himself with preparations while taking care to make the space inviting. In the background, he could hear the soft sounds of Dazai's breathing, a rhythmic reminder of the frailty of the moment, especially with Ookami curled up peacefully next to him, wrapped in a blanket and oblivious to the world around him.

Meanwhile, Yosano rummaged through Dazai's rather eclectic medicine cabinet, her brows furrowed in concentration. The shelves were a mix of neatly organized and chaotic, with various bottles and boxes jostling for space. She pulled out the first aid kit, checking its contents carefully. 

"First aid kit, check," she muttered, her voice just above a whisper. 

Next, she located the allergy medication, making sure it was up to date before giving it a satisfied nod. 

"Allergy medication, check." 

Then, she found a small bottle of children's medicine tucked away at the back, likely left over from a previous episode of taking care of free-spirited kids. 

"Children's medicine, check." 

Finally, her eyes landed on a firearm that seemed out of place among the assorted band-aids and syrups. She picked it up, feeling the weight of it in her hands, deep in thought. The gun was a grim reminder of the dangers that loomed just outside the comfort of their makeshift family. With a heavy sigh, she placed it back, hoping it would gather dust rather than be needed. 

While Yosano was busy with her checks, Atsushi stood tentatively near the doorway, his gaze fixed on the sleeping forms of Dazai and Ookami. He felt a mix of concern and relief, knowing they were safe for now, even if just in this moment. 

Meanwhile, Kunikida moved with practiced efficiency around the kitchen, selecting fresh vegetables and ingredients for the zōsui, a light rice soup that would provide nourishment without overwhelming Dazai’s stomach. He also set the kettle on the stove for a soothing cup of ginger honey tea, its warm, aromatic steam soon filling the air. 

As he worked, Yosano broke the silence, her tone casual yet laced with sincerity. “So about Ookami…” she started, wanting to ease into a conversation that felt comfortable and light in the midst of their evening's concerns. Kunikida turned his attention to her, eager to engage, knowing that even small talk could lift the weight of worry that hung in the air.

Kunikida turned his head to face Yosano, confusion etched across his features, his eyebrows knitted together. He had shed his suit jacket, leaving him in a crisp dress shirt and a dark vest that accentuated his lean build. “What about the kid?” he asked, a hint of frustration creeping into his voice.

Yosano, with her sharp gaze, commented, “He looks exactly like him, Dazai...” Her tone was heavy with an unspoken weight, as if she was hinting at something much deeper.

Kunikida let out a weary sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Well, yes, he is Dazai's son,” he replied with a mix of resignation and disbelief.

Yosano’s eyes flicked toward Kunikida, a knowing glimmer in them. “That’s not what I meant!” she exclaimed, a touch of urgency in her voice.

“Then what?” Kunikida’s confusion deepened, and he shifted his stance, gripping the edge of the table as he searched for answers.

“His eyes...they look...they look like yours,” she said, her voice softening, as if she were revealing a fragile truth.

Kunikida shot her a wary glare, wondering if she was truly serious. “Yosano...” He tried to maintain a tone of skepticism, but an unsettling feeling began to gnaw at him.

Yosano turned to face him fully, her expression earnest. “He’s only four; there’s a chance it could be...”

“Wait, how do you know about ‘it’?” Kunikida questioned sharply, his heart racing back to that fateful New Year’s party. Four years ago, Dazai had somehow managed to convince him to drink, and the memory of that night was one he would rather forget. He recalled the swirling lights, the laughter, and the sense of reckless abandon that had fueled their decisions. Dazai, more composed than he, had taken Kunikida to his cramped, cluttered apartment, where one thing had led to another, culminating in a night filled with unspoken promises and regrets.

“I overheard you two talking about it,” Yosano admitted reluctantly, her gaze unwavering.

“You what?” Kunikida felt a surge of panic as he gripped the teapot handle tighter, the porcelain cool against his palm.

Yosano, noticing the shift in his body language, quickly added, “I promise I didn’t tell anyone. Your secret is safe with me.”

Kunikida exhaled a sigh of relief, though the knot in his stomach remained. “But Ookami can’t be... Dazai would’ve…”

“Doppo,” Yosano glanced at him, her expression serious, “You know how Dazai is. There’s always a chance.”

His eyes met hers, and he could see the understanding reflected back at him. Deep down, he knew she was right. The reality of the situation hung heavily in the air. “...Fuck,” he cursed, the weight of his thoughts crashing down on him like a tidal wave, leaving him grappling with a whirlwind of emotions.