(for the drabble challenge): sleepy
one word drabble prompts:
sleepy + little ranpo and his parents 🩷
"Ranpo, sweetheart, you should just go to bed already."
"No! I'm not sleepy yet!"
At the genkan of the Edogawa household, a seven year old Ranpo hugs his knees, gazing intensely at the front door.
The clock on the wall, hanging right over the small table before the genkan, reads five past ten at night— way past a seven year old's bed time.
He says he isn't tired, but the longer he stares at the door, the more his eyes will droop on their own, and Ranpo will start to doze before quickly catching himself.
His mother is endeared, of course, but…
"Something must've happened after your father finished his case today. You know that happens sometimes."
"Father promised!" Ranpo insists, hunching his shoulders even more stubbornly. "He's never broken his promise, so he'll definitely come home tonight!"
The life of a detective never stopped being a busy one.
Even though by all technicalities, Akechi was retired, he was ultimately too antsy to completely relax. He would jump in and help on a case if it sounded interesting or complex enough, regaling his beloved son with the details the moment he was own and swept the little boy up into his arms.
Ranpo had grown to love that part of his father's work, and Fumiyo couldn't fault him for it any herself.
After all, Ranpo wouldn't even have been born if the two of them hadn't met while Akechi was working a case.
"You're going to fall asleep at the genkan, Ranpo." His mother warns playfully.
"Nuh uh! I'm not tired one bit!"
Fumiyo laughs, shaking her head in fond amusement as she turns to disappear into the kitchen.
She busies herself with planning what to cook for dinner the next day, reads a section of her new book, and then, just like that—
When the man of the house finally makes it home, it's fifteen minutes after midnight.
The front door of the Edogawa House opens after the rattling of keys, fumbling with the handle, and a minor juggling act with a variety of work tools. There's something clumsy and boyish in the way Akechi stumbles in, hugging a suitcase, long coat, and a crumpled folder awkwardly against his body.
After leaning back to close the door behind him, the disheveled man places his things on the table before the genkan.
"Oh, crap, Ranpo is going to be so mad at m— whoah!"
Just as he turns, Akechi freezes, finally noticing his son sitting at the genkan, now positioned next to the opposite wall to lean into.
Naturally, just as his mother had predicted, Ranpo fell asleep waiting for his father to come home.
The detective sighs and rests a hand on his hip. His lips tug up into a wide, fond smile.
"Geez, kiddo… Way to really rub it in I broke my promise, huh?"
"Even I'm surprised you're home this late," Fumiyo points out as she steps into the hallway, casually walking up to her husband to press a kiss to his cheek. "Just what did you do this time, huh?"
Akechi leans into the kiss, turning to embrace his wife tightly and exhale into her shoulder.
"Hahhh, Namikoshi sure did give me a scolding right after the case wrapped up. He was serious this time— didn't care at all when I said I kept a promise with Ranpo!"
His wife sighs, patting his head as if she's comforting a child.
Ranpo is a spitting image of his father for a reason, right?
"Namikoshi-san has long since given up on scolding you for every little thing. Whatever you did, you probably deserved it."
Akechi pulls back dramatically with a sigh of defeat, "Ah, even my own wife is against me. Irony is a cruel mistress— I leave the police station a hero, but I return home as a villain."
"Save the poetics for regaling our son tomorrow."
The two of them look down at the boy. He's still sleeping as soundly as can be, despite a conversation taking place right next to him.
After hanging up his coat and ordering his things, Akechi kneels down, reaching out so he can carefully pick his son up in his arms and stand upright.
Ranpo's head falls limply against his shoulder, and ever so briefly, a smile tugs at his lips. Subconsciously, he rubs his cheek into the fabric of his father's shirt; even in the depths of his dreams, the familiar scent of his father's cologne wraps him in a blanket of comfort and warmth.
