Author's Note: This fanfic takes place during episode 12 of 2nd GIG: To Those Without a Name: SELECON, and there are minor spoilers for that episode.
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"If you have to carry a gun while you're off-duty, then you can quit your job at the security company!" It had been a week since she spoke those words to her husband, when he was being held during the trial, but every time she went to bed by herself, she thought them again with spite, and then remorsefully wished she could take them back. As her body tossed and turned, in her mind she waffled between anger at his frequent absences, self-pitying loneliness, and tearful fear for his safety. She wondered what Togusa was doing now . . .
"You came at just the right time -- please come with me!" The professor's assistant grabbed Togusa's hand and began to drag him up the stairway.
"H-h-hey!" Togusa could tell the man was worried, but had no idea why he was in such a hurry. He heard muffled but intense voices coming from above, and then they burst into the door of the room. A man held a sharp knife to his own neck, trembling, while others begged him to stop.
I should feel lucky -- I have a devoted husband who works hard to provide for our family -- why can't I just be grateful for that? She thought she heard her son crying -- no, it was just her imagination. She sighed with relief. Usually, he just went right to bed, but tonight he had thrown tantrums over everything -- she wouldn't let him have cookies for dinner, he wanted to take a bath with daddy, he wanted to play with the kitchen knives, his sister wouldn't give him her pencil . . . The frustrated screams echoed in her head, even though now he was sleeping peacefully. After each tantrum, as it got more and more difficult for her to be patient and calm, she couldn't help thinking, Where is he?! He should be home by now . . .
"Calm down; I'm just here to talk," Togusa said calmly, holding up his hands nonthreateningly. But the man would not be calmed.
"Don't come any closer!" His grip on the knife tightened, and a woman screamed. Togusa slowly inched forward, hoping to keep the man talking long enough to change his mind, or disarm him if necessary.
"You know the essay entitled, 'The Individualist Eleven,' right?"
He probably just forgot to call. Again. She pushed down a wave of resentment, and tried to calm her breathing so she could sleep. And after I made one of his favorites for dinner, too . . . No, she refused to feel angry at him. He was just doing his job, he was working for the family -- she couldn't very well get mad at him for that. But she felt so helpless and alone. What if he got shot again and he's lying in an alley somewhere?
The knife -- or was it a letter opener? -- was dull enough that even though the man began to cut, and blood spurted onto the window behind him, the cut wasn't very deep. Togusa leapt across the desks, confiscating the man's knife and trying to limit the loss of blood. Blood spattered onto his face, but he didn't flinch.
"Somebody call an ambulance!," he yelled, pressing the man's coat over the wound.
Finally, just as she was about to fall asleep, she heard the front door open. Shoes clunked quietly to the floor, and she got up groggily to meet him.
"I'm back," he whispered, unsure if she was still awake.
"Welcome home, sweetie," she said, staggering sleepily down the hallway and trying to sound welcoming and not at all bitter or sad. "Did you eat already? I made gyoza . . ."
"That sounds great . . . but I'm not hungry." Images of the man cutting into his own neck with a knife refused to go away. Togusa hoped he had cleaned all the blood off his jacket -- he didn't want to worry his wife any more than she already was.
"All right . . . well, I was just going to bed, so . . . " She turned to leave, pausing for a moment, and was surprised to feel his arms about her waist as he pulled her close.
"I'm sorry," he whispered into her hair. "I should have called." He couldn't really tell her about the stress of the Individualist Eleven case, about the gruesome scenes he had witnessed and the helplessness they all felt at being manipulated by Gouda. Even if he could tell her, he wouldn't have wanted her to worry even more about him.
"It's okay," she murmured, her frustration wilting. She closed her eyes, and thought of a hundred complaints she could vent, and let them go. "I'm . . . just glad you're home." She exhaled, leaning back her head against his chest. She could have told him about their son's tantrums, about how she had remade the gyoza after the first batch burned, about how lonely she had been . . . but she didn't want him to worry about her. There were some things she just had to endure by herself. The old proverb echoed in her mind, "Women are weak, but mothers are strong".