Hayato sighed as he popped another piece of gum in his mouth. He hated the taste, or to say the lack of taste after two minutes, but grudgingly put up with it. Stupid Baseball Freak and his stupid bets; he made a mental note to never, ever, make a bet with him again.
“Goku-oji! Goku-oji! Can I please have some ice cream?” whined the little girl sitting next to him on the park bench. She pointed hopefully at the far-off little gelato cart that sat between the elephant exhibit and the giraffes.
“No, now let me sit. We’ve been walking all morning,” Hayato growled, thankful for the tree-shade that covered them. The girl pouted, unsatisfied with the result.
Oh yeah, no more betting on baseball with Takeshi for him. Now he had to quit smoking for a month and, partly due to his own stupidity, take the guy’s kid for the day during the Guardians’ bi-monthly meeting in Italy. Crazy little brat wanted to go the zoo of all places. When tourists come to Italy, they want to see art, architecture and history… not chimpanzees flinging feces at one another in argument.
“You’re mean Goku-oji.”
“Zio Hayato.”
“Hiii…”
Hayato watched as the brat hopped down from the bench and ran over to a group of kids her age that were there on a school trip. They seemed to understand her enough, based probably on looks and language, to know she was just a tourist child and wanted to have some fun like them. She was eight or six or whatever—Hayato could never remember which and always had to be reminded of how old she really was come her birthdays—and was more of a handful than both of her parents put together. Yamamoto Haruhi and her existence was probably one of the largest enigmas Hayato had ever faced.
Not that a kid being born is ever a bad thing, but Hayato had decided long ago that the circumstances were just too odd. After finally fixing the future, which was one of the craziest rides he had ever been on, everyone was pretty different once they were back in their proper time. They all seemed older, wiser, slightly more frightening in Hibari’s case, and a little bit more cautious. Takeshi finally realized a few months later that it really was the mafia and not a game, which garnered a well-deserved set of dynamite thrown in his face. It was worth the scolding and stomachache he got from Bianchi afterwards.
So the gang went about their business, growing stronger and keeping their mafia lives a secret from the normal world. Hayato ended up going back to Italy for a few years after high school, making sure everything was going to be set once Tenth graduated from college and moved to Vongola Headquarters. He came back every so often, in order to keep his place as the Tenth’s right-hand man secure, but never stayed long enough to catch on with anything other than health statuses and how powerful everyone had become. Hayato only caught on to the fact Haru had given up on Tenth and decided on Takeshi instead only when he received the wedding invitation in the mail. Kind of unexpected? Yeah; like he cared though.
It made sense though that the two idiots were perfect for each other; they were oblivious to the border of retardation, sickeningly spirited and quickly adapted to mafia life. They both annoyed the hell out of him, so it kind of fit in its own bizarre way. He was happy they were too occupied with each other to bother him, or the Tenth’s official business, making things run a whole lot smoother in his opinion.
Then they spawned and found all new ways to intrude on his life. Both Takeshi and Haru knew he was horrible with kids, but somehow he always got stuck babysitting anyways. He had a feeling that was why he was named godfather—so that he could be stuck watching after the kid out of obligation. Stupid Baseball Freak finding out how to utilize the stupid mafia honor code for his own use and not need to pay a goddamned babysitter…
…and that was how the infamous Smoking Bomb Hayato, renown member of the Vongola Family and explosives expert, found himself babysitting at the zoo.
Haruhi giggled as she watched the deer prance about with her new friends. Although there was a language barrier, they seemed to get along nicely and laughed like kids were supposed to. Hayato had yet to figure out whether the kid was smart like her mom or a total idiot like her dad, but still figured she was as dense as both of them. He could not even get her to call him “uncle” in Italian, no matter how many times he corrected her.
“So what kind of nonsense are you speaking? You stupid or something?”
Hayato’s ears perked up when he heard the squeaky little Italian voice yell quite animatedly at something. He looked over to Haruhi and saw there was a boy there who had not been there before, glaring at his goddaughter.
“I’m talking to you!” the little boy snapped. Haruhi smiled earnestly and tilted her head to the side.
“Sono turista,” she said. Hayato raised his eyebrow, interested as to how she picked up the innocent phrase.
“You’re a tourist? I should’ve known,” the little boy scoffed. “Hey, where’s that big pack you tourists always travel in? Lost sight of your group?”
“Ilio, stop being mean,” one of the other kids implored. The first kid refused to listen, taking a step closer to Haruhi. If Hayato was a lesser man, or Haruhi not the result of the Baseball Idiot and his idiot wife, the little boy would have already been running for his life.
“You run along now and find your group,” the kid snarled. “Oh yeah, that’s right, you don’t understand me, do you?”
“Sporcare il bastardo,” Haruhi smiled. Hayato flushed, realizing he would have to watch his mouth a little better around her. The kid erupted in rage, coming at Haruhi ready to punch her. The girl simply smiled that stupid smile that she obviously inherited from her father and dodged with ease. The kid tripped over his own feet and fell to the ground.
“Ow! You little…!” the kid growled. There had been a thunderstorm recently, scattering twigs and branches all over the park that the staff had yet to clean up. The boy picked up one of these sticks and tried to hit Haruhi. The girl, however, quickly picked up her own and matched the boy’s blow, putting a smile on her godfather’s face.
Oh yeah; Hayato had a slight hunch at that moment that this kid had more of her idiot father in her than he previously thought.
“Ilio!” a sharp voice snapped. An older woman marched over to the children and forced the little boy up by the ear. “What on earth are you doing?!”
“She started it!” the boy said, pointing at Haruhi. Once glance from the stern woman sent Haruhi running back to Hayato half in tears.
“Goku-oji! Goku-oji!” she cried. Hayato sighed and coddled the kid reluctantly.
“So she’s yours?” the stern woman asked. Hayato looked up and saw her standing only a few feet from where he was sitting, giving him a disgusted, unconvinced glare. Maybe it was because he did not look Japanese—well, a little in the eyes still—or that she was eyeing the Vongola ring on his finger that symbolized the power he had in the region. Either way, she seemed suspicious.
“You have a problem with my goddaughter defending herself from your little brat over there?” He stood up, finding that he easily towered over the woman. He flashed a cocky smile as the woman furrowed her brow and took a step back. Haruhi clutched the back of his suit jacket. If the Guardian was allowed to smoke, he knew he would have blown a good and dense cloud in the woman’s face.
Wordlessly, the woman left and ushered the kids along. The nicer kids waved to Haruhi, who happily waved back. Hayato glanced down at his goddaughter and frowned.
“You’ve been spending too much time with your father again, haven’t you?”
“I have to… otherwise Daddy might not see me once the baseball season starts up again.”
…but did it have to involve sparring? Knowing Takeshi, it had lots to do with sparring and baseball.
“Let’s go get some gelato.”
“Hiiii! Ice cream! Thanks Zio Hayato!” Haruhi perked up and began running over towards the gelato stand, arms out like an airplane the whole way.
Alright, not smoking was pretty bad, but maybe he could handle the little twerp for a day.
Translations
Zio = uncle
Sono turista = I am a tourist
Sporcare il bastardo = dirty bastard
