Fandom: Enn Enn no Shouboutai / Fire Force.
Pairing: Shinmon Benimaru x fem!reader.
Content: Scheming, angst, pining, someone’s not good at dealing with a variety of feelings. Oh! It’s almost a tradition in this so no proofing.
A/N: So...I should’ve been asleep and trying to rearrange my sleep cycle after a weekend of nightshifts, but meh! Much better to get this down in words. Feel free to ASK (or reblog) for tag – in fact: always reblog. Thanks to those who have already <3
16. Inferno
... Benimaru ...
The route might be different than the one [Y/N] had followed earlier, but the determination to reach the destination is just as great. Just short of running, Benimaru hurries down the street, takes a left down the alley, and finally two rights before he has to stop and wait for an inhabitant to let him in.
This is taking too long. I shou-
The door is opened by Mr. Ozaka who isn’t given a chance to greet the captain properly before the young man has rushed past, barely taking time to ditch the boots (not that it reduces the thundering noise as he races up the stairs) - Benimaru knows exactly where to go: he insisted on personally inspecting each and every single hiding place to make sure it would be safe enough.
And there’s the futon, easy to push aside. Must be nearly suffocating under there! It bounces off the wall from the force and he ignores as it plops against his skull, focusing instead on jamming a handful of fingertips into the groove along the floorboard and lift it enough to ensure better purchase. A section of the floor lifts neatly revealing the cramped hiding hole and...
“WHERE is she?!” Benimaru demands from the meek homeowner.
... Reader ...
You’re still not entirely sure you won’t get in trouble (actually, knowing Shinmon and his grumpiness: you’re screwed), but you’ve learned not to argue with the old woman who finally seems to be pleased with the situation.
“This is my favourite tea, dear,” O-bāchan smiles as she readies the leaves and waits for the water to reach the perfect temperature.
When she first pulled you out of the hiding hole (she’s surprisingly strong!), she had tutted at the sight and refused to listen to explanations or excuses while ushering you along. Then she’d drawn a bath for you (which had been lovely considering the sweat from the training and then the dust) and laid out a clean yukata to wear. Once you were re-freshened, she’d prepared a light meal for the two of you.
“Are you sure you don’t want me t-”
“Don’t you dare,” once more, her voice grows sharp as a harpy’s, “you’re my guest.”
You don’t dare point out that a guest normally has a choice of whether or not to go to someone’s home. Instead, you dutifully sit, knees and shins digging into the little cushion as you groan mentally at the constricting cotton from the protonationalistic outfit. You’ve seen a lot of women wear it around in Asakusa. It does sort of look pretty in the same impractical way the yellow sundress you’ve inherited does – the difference there being that the latter still allows free movement. And that’s the thing: for too long, you’ve had to think smart to get by on your own and clothes were meant to be practical; something that helps a person survive.
“Here you go,” O-bāchan hands you a cup of tea with a smile just as there’s a loud knocking on the door.
Are they still searching? Is the first panicked thought shooting through your head and you can’t help but wince as the banging is repeated.
“Oï-oï, such impatience. Excuse me for a moment, sweetie, and do try one of the cookies.” Your host is perfectly unfazed as she clambers to her feet (a few muttered groans proving her age) and shuts the door upon leaving the room.
You don’t taste the baked goods – don’t even have the wherewithal to put down the cup of tea as you listen for the muted sounds of voices. Oh...I know that one.
A quick glance around cements what you already knew: there’s only one way in and out. It’s tempting to grab the roll of dirty clothes and try to make a dash for it. Perhaps you can escape to another room and wait there until the hallway’s clear? You scrap the idea right away, resigning yourself to the inevitable.
At least O-bāchan’s delighted chatting warns you before the door slides open, revealing her and a blank-faced Shinmon. No, not blank. There’s a tick in his jaw and his eyes narrow the second he spots you sitting at the neatly laden table. He’s still wearing the same clothes as when you were sparring that very morning (something that feels like ages ago), stale sweat momentarily overpowering the more pleasant fragrances as he too is ushered to take a place. Right next to you.
“I’ll warm bathwater for you, my lad,” Asakusa’s granny chirps.
“No need, we won’t be staying long.” It’s border-lining a growl, and her pointed gaze makes him add, “Thank you, though.”
“Well...fine...” Something is muttered under her breath that neither of you dare ask about. “I guess I’ll find a new cup for myself. [Y/N], be a good girl and pour Waka some tea.”
You do as she says and rush to free your hands, both because you’ve already learned there’s no sense in refusing her but mainly to do something, anything, to keep the awkward silence at bay. The pot trembles slightly as you fill the blue porcelain cup, and it’s much too loud as you replace it in the holder above the little candle.
...
O-bāchan had done most of the talking during the rest of you visit, but despite the unwillingness of her guests, she still seemed mighty pleased with herself when she waved goodbye. While the tea had warmed your belly and the sweets had made you think of happier days...well, nothing lasted long enough to tide you all the way back to Company Seven’s station.
Walking to your room with too short steps, bare feet silent on the wooden planks, you’re uncomfortable aware of Benimaru following you a few steps behind (probably on his way to the showers or his own room). Your fingertips greedily curl around the etched slit of the door, knowing that soon you’ll be in your own little sanctuary. Alone.
“[Y/N].”
You freeze, loath to turn around because you know he’s about to chew you out. “Shinmon.”
“I told you to stay hidden until I came for you.”
Sorry. “I know, but have you tried arguing with her? The old bidd-”
“Shut up. When you weren’t there...all I could think was...if they’d...” his voice is raw as he struggles with the words.
Too curious for your own good, you turn and find the normally stoic captain in a state you never expected. Hands flexing as his side and shoulders tense. His shaggy hair covering most of his face because he’s looking down as if searching for the root to the frustration that’s rolling off of him. He’s not angry? Or maybe he is but that’s not what’s prevalent right this instant. As if feeling your gaze, he lifts his face and allows your eyes to meet and there, just for a millisecond, there’s a flicker of pain and fear.
Then it’s gone.
... Benimaru ...
Ever since Mamoru had warned about the cops, it had either felt as if a fire was searing everything inside the captain’s chest or the sharpness of ice had pierced every organ there. No in between until he had finally stepped in and seen the woman – the source of all the trouble – sitting daintily and sipping tea. For a moment all he had felt was weightlessness. Pretty as the flowers on the yukata – obviously a borrowed item which his brain took time to comment that she ought to own instead – and apparently unharmed, [Y/N] somehow mellowed out the extremes battling inside him.
Now the internal storm is back and it’s all he can do to contain it.
“If they’d -” he bites back the urge to say what he wants, mentally stomps out the burning urge to grab the woman to make sure she really still is there. It’s not just hold her hand or grab her arm but a thirst for her lips and her body’s response if he were to melt into her.
Sensing [Y/N]’s movement, he does wrangles it all into submission by reminding himself that despite appreciating the safety provided by the “neighbourhood watch” she has made it clear as sunshine that she shuns him. Konro, the twins, hell even most of the guys are honoured with the friendship...but not Benimaru. Well, I’m still going to keep you safe.
“They wouldn’t be as forgiving or hospitable as we’ve been,” he grinds out before marching away.
