He drives home in silence, cigarette between his lips, hand on the wheel, and sighs. Its late, really late, and he doesn’t expect you to be awake at this ungodly hour nor does he expect you to wait up for him either. You work hard, and it’s important to him that you live a semi-decent life, one that doesn’t revolve around him and the dangerous work he does.
Still, he turns the key in the lock of your shared apartment and curses under his breath when he drops it and almost stumbles inside. He’s tired, so tired, and the sleep is pulling him, making his movements sluggish.
He sees the light of the laptop reflect your face, and for a moment all he can do is stand there and watch you adjust your glasses and take a sip of coffee as you pore over the textbook. You’re adorable like that, he thinks and again, feels a pang of love for you. Something crumbles in him and he heaves a big sigh that makes the very marrow of his bones ache.
“Shuji?” you turn to his figure in the door, and take in the sight. How long has he been standing there? “you ok?”
“Yeah,” he says, even though he’s not. He’s really not, and if he starts talking about it, he might never stop. “I didn’t think you’d be awake. What are you doing up so late my pretty baby?” He forces the bounce back into his voice again.
‘This assignment is unfortunately not going to write itself,” you grumble and chew on the end of the pen. Shuji bends to kiss your hair, and that’s when you see it.
Your boyfriend being covered in blood is not an unfamiliar sight. Covered in blood, with cuts and bruises and scratches is something you’ve grown accustomed to. But today its different. Today he seems… weary. Tired. You look up at him, and his eyes are drawn, and there are harsh lines underneath them.
“Shuji? Babe?” you run a finger along his cheek and almost instinctively he leans into your touch. His suit, usually pristine and sharp, is crumpled and torn. Now you know the job he does and you know its dangerous. But there is an unspoken trust between you.
“What happened?” you ask, gently, and lead him to the sofa where you proceed to put his head in your lap and run your fingers through his hair. He sighs, again, and closes his eyes, feeling the soft pads of your fingers on his scalp. You are so gentle with him and he hates himself for it. Hanma Shuji is not used to gentleness but when he looks at you, he sees how you treat it as second nature, and how you make him crave being loved and wanted so much he almost feels like it eats him alive. And just like that he starts talking about the days job.
‘It was supposed to be quick,” he says as you massage his hair, running your fingers over the smooth lines of his face. “I had my gun, but I didn’t realize he had family in the house. A son, and he saw me do it.”
A lump forms in your throat.
“The son was screaming, and I panicked. He was supposed to be alone, that’s what I was told.” He opens his eyes and stares at the ceiling, and the light from your laptop reflects in his golden eyes. “But I just ran and all the way out the building all I could hear was the crying.”
Hanma has never cried over a job before, and he has always known it is not for him to question anything. He has his orders, and thats it. He enjoys it in fact, for the most part. It thrills him, to fight, to hurt. So why doesn’t it feel that way today? Why is his voice devoid of emotion?
“Shuji…” you whisper, and press a kiss to his forehead, his cheeks, his nose, and then finally, a soft press to his lips. He closes his eyes and leans into you, glad that not only has he got it off his chest, but that he doesn’t have to justify what he does, that you just understand.
“Do you hate me?” he asks suddenly, catching your hands in his. “Do you think I’m the worst person? If you hated me I’d understand, I’m a killer, I’m worthless and I’m only good for hurting peo-”
you press your lips to his again, cutting him off. You’re looking at him with such softness he can hardly handle it. He can hardly breathe.
“Shuji. If I hated you I wouldn’t be here. And you’re good at a great many things. You’re always helping me, making time for me, looking after me, cheering me up.”
“And…” you hold up a finger. “Maybe we are all terrible people. All I know is that we can be terrible people together. Just me and you.”
You are so good, he thinks, and his eyes soften looking up at you. It feels unfair, that he should have this beautiful person with him, he who doesn’t deserve it.
‘I didn’t take you for such a romantic,” he says, lightening the mood, and you see that signature grin on his face again.
“Shut up,” you grumble and he laughs, and the sound is beautiful and sweet.
And so he falls sleep with your hands in his hair, listening to your breath, and the sound of cars as they pass by.
(likes and reblogs appreciated!! I didn’t proofread this at all, I’m just throwing shit out there)
