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Hey Gran, are those manju? Can I have some? I’m starving to death out here.
These belong to my husband, ask him.
…
What did my husband say?
Beats me. The dead don’t talk.
Now you’re just asking for it. Don’t blame me if you get cursed.
..The dead don’t talk and they don’t eat dango. So I made a one-sided promise.
I won’t forget this debt. Your wife doesn’t have that much longer to live, but I’m going to protect her in your stead.
Otose had been completely alone after Tatsugoro’s passing. Of course, the endless entertainment provided by her drunk patrons kept her company, but after closing up shop in the early morning hours it was just her and the silence of an empty house. So having another person in her home was, for the first few days, a very foreign feeling for Otose.
When she visited her late husband on a frigid Winter afternoon, Otose left her home carrying a small plate of manju. She ended up returning home with the plate tucked inside her kimono sleeve, her arms and hands instead occupied with supporting the weight of a battered young man. She didn’t exactly enjoy entertaining the idea of leaving a half-dead boy with the literal grim reaper poking his snow-covered hair to just wither away in the cold. Besides, with the way he was resting against Tatsugoro’s gravestone it looked as if her husband was watching over him, waiting for her to take him back home.
The first week spent with the abrupt new addition to her household went by relatively quietly; the boy – Gintoki, she’d learned, had little energy to do absolutely anything let alone hold a conversation lasting more than 30 seconds. The only sounds that really came from him were small grumbles when begrudgingly allowing Otose to help him bathe and get to the toilet without toppling over, or when thanking her for medicine and the meals she brought to him.
Many times Otose found herself watching the steady rise and fall of the boy’s chest as he slept at night, wondering how exactly he managed to wind up there on that day in the first place. Gintoki looked like a boy forced to grow up much too quickly and carry burdens on his shoulders heavy enough to break anyone’s spirit. She gathered that Gintoki didn’t have a stellar past – the way he’d sometimes jolt awake at night drenched in sweat, gasping for air, and the fresh scars and fading bruises littered across his body made that obvious enough. It made her heart ache in a way she’d never felt before. Otose never commented on anything, allowing the boy to open his heart to her whenever he felt ready; despite the rapidly growing attachment Otose felt for Gintoki, they’d only known each other for a short while and she knew Gintoki’s defences were high. Hell, the boy blatantly refused to acknowledge anything was wrong in the first place.
As the weeks turned into months, Otose learned that Gintoki was not in the slightest a quiet person. The gasps at night became less frequent, replaced by unbelievably loud snores resulting in Gintoki being rudely awoken by a pillow thrown at his face from across the room too many times to count. Perhaps the elder woman had herself to blame for this; once his wounds had healed nicely enough, she often made Gintoki do small repair jobs around the Snack House or run errands to keep his body tired enough for sleep to come quickly at night.
But it seemed more likely that Gintoki had managed to convince his brain that not every small noise meant danger, and became comfortable enough to fall asleep with ease.
Part of it could also be the new addition of the bokutō at his waist. Otose knew well that a seasoned war veteran being thrown back into normal society after God knows how long would need some time to adjust. Gintoki thought he hid it better than he clearly did but Otose always noticed his restlessness when they were out in the streets of Kabukichō – she saw the way he flinched ever so sightly when someone walked by them too close, or the twitch of his fingers and tensing shoulders when an Amanto was in his field of vision. The thing that stood out the most to Otose was when Gintoki would unconsciously tuck his left arm into his yukata as if he’d been used to resting it against the weight of something, a sword, tucked under his obi. It always reminded her of times long past, seeing Jirocho leisurely stroll through the town with his arm resting on top his trusty katana.
Later that week, Otose came back from a trip to see an old friend with a bokutō – Lake Toya engraved on the hilt. Since that moment, the sword has never left Gintoki’s side, not even in his sleep. He hugged the damn thing like it’s a teddy bear. Of course, the flimsy souvenir wasn’t built to serve as a faithful weapon, but years later Gintoki would order a proper bokutō from a TV ad and have Lake Toya engraved as a good luck charm.
As time stretched on, Otose learned more about the boy she came to think of as her son. At least four times a week she’d wake up to the smell of breakfast being made; Otose would tell Gintoki he could’ve slept in more like he usually does but the boy would always respond with a pinky shoved in his ear, mumbling something about old ladies needing their beauty sleep to reduce wrinkles or something, but Otose’s eyes crinkled in fondness at the faint dusting of pink on his cheeks.
Rowdy drunks that frequented the bar dwindled in numbers after hearing rumours of Otose hiring a demon as a bodyguard. This of course was false information – Gintoki had declared himself as “The Snack House Official Unofficial Bouncer” and passers-by seeing people running out of the bar screaming bloody murder had just assumed a demon was inside. The regulars always got a kick out of seeing someone new break into a cold sweat feeling a pair of red eyes burning into their soul. Otose, however, described his appearance as an angry cat driving unwanted strangers out of his territory.
Deep down, Gintoki was a kind man with a shining soul hiding under a mask of indifference and booger flicking.
But the snoring got unbearable at one point so Otose threw him into the spare apartment upstairs. Gintoki’s omelettes would be dearly missed, but the sacrifice was well worth Otose’s poor ears.
As a mother does, Otose made sure to visit Gintoki frequently. She used rent as an excuse for him to get his ass out of the house and become a functioning member of society, or invited herself in for dinner with a steaming container, saying she cooked too much and he should do his body a favour and put some actual food into it.
Her visits became less frequent once the Yorozuya business was set up and Kagura, Shinpachi and Sadaharu came crashing into Gintoki’s life. Hearing their loud voices and heavy footsteps from downstairs always set Catherine off but Otose thought it was a nice change from the silence she’d been used to all these years; the house became a home once again. Otose felt her heart swell with pride – her son had finally grown into a man and got a family of his own. That still didn’t stop her from breaking down the front door at the crack of dawn demanding overdue rent. Unknown to Gintoki though, Otose never truly cared about the rent money; if she did then he’d be on the streets long ago. On the surface she did nothing but nag at him but really it was just her way of checking in on her mess of a son. But maybe Gintoki did know more about his mother’s intentions than he let on, simply playing along.
After years of understanding Gintoki through his body language and long conversations during sleepless nights they never mentioned the next morning, knowing when his mind is being held captive in the past has become second nature to her.
Gintoki can try all he wants to act nonchalant but it’s as clear as day to Otose, as if someone marked everything out with a bright yellow highlighter and detailed annotations – how dark circles sometimes appear more under half-lidded eyes that look truly dead to the world; usually unruly curls seeming heavy and flat. Or when bandages peek out from a shirt zipped up higher. It’s like she’s put on a pair of X-ray googles Gengai invented, or maybe she somehow developed her very own Gintoki spidey-senses? (No, they’re just motherly instincts). Even though she notices the signs way before anyone else does, she only steps in when he’s bad to the point even Kagura and Shinpachi are visibly worried about their adoptive father.
Although she has years of experience in giving makeshift therapy sessions to her piss-drunk MADAO of a son that would grant her a PhD in Counselling, this isn’t the Naruto universe where a Talk No Jutsu will fix everything. So when Gintoki is especially bad, Otose just quietly invites him downstairs for a glass or two of decent liquor and some company for the night. Not a single word is exchanged between them – no quips about rent, or the dangerous amount of strawberry milk consumption; the only sounds in the room being glasses clinking against the wooden bar surface and the exhale of cigarette smoke.
Otose understands Gintoki more than the man does himself sometimes. She knows he just needs a quiet moment away from everything; a break from being the Yorozuya Gin-Chan everyone relies upon. A moment allowed to just be. Many seem to forget that even the strongest people who hold their heads up high need a shoulder to cry on. At the end of the day, no matter how insanely sturdy that broad back is, or how easily he appears to carry the weight of the whole world and then some on his shoulders, Gintoki is just a human being; there’s only so much he can take. Which is precisely why Otose never says anything during these moments, because she doesn’t need to – she knows that Gintoki has people to share his burdens with, and he knows that she will always be one of them.
The following mornings Otose always receives some form of gratitude from the man, mostly a muttered thanks or appreciative wave right before he slides the door shut and the Yorozuya trio go off to do only God know’s what for a client – after Kagura makes sure that every grain of rice gets transferred from Otose’s rice cooker to her stomach, of course.
Otose sees Gintoki as the son she never had, and she knows Gintoki thinks of her as the closest thing to a mother. They’re not the most functional family: an old woman with a cat theif and robot maid, a pre-teen Yato with a black hole for a stomach, a pair of floating glasses, a lazy samurai with a sugar addiction and a giant alien dog. But they wouldn’t have it any other way.
Thanks pops, for leading me to these assholes.