Title:
Title: Perfect
Summary: He is a monster, that devil Quarterback. How did he actually recover from such extensive bone fracture? Can you believe this is also about her?
Disclaimer: We, humans don't own anything. It's the aliens! Waaaaaaaaaaahhhhh
Note: I haven't written a fanfic for a very long time. Please forgive the shortcomings. I just love to write (though most times I don't make much sense).
x x x
He is the king of the ultimate and the most outrageous disguises. He is the mastermind, the master, the maker. Or so they think (or so he'd like to think).
Mamori snipped the exposed portion of the bandage to prevent the whole thing from unraveling. If you'd look at her, you can almost detect a faint pleasure of doing such a chore, nursing, mothering, taking care of a special patient. The whole scene would have been appropriate if it wasn't Hiruma who is at the receiving end of her careful attention.
"Hn. You finally finished, damn manager", then a pop from his gum.
"If you're going to pretend, might as well do it perfectly. They might see through your bluffing if the bandages aren't done properly", the manager retorted.
"Tch." She's learned how to counter him, and she's learned well, he thought. Still, he can't help but try to test her patience sometimes. Besides, his occasional sarcasm towards her are not enough to get back at her for all the torture she'd put him through these past weeks.
He recalled that afternoon she appeared at his doorstep. He almost blew his apartment to smithereens.
x x x
"Ne, Hiruma-kun, why did you leave the hospital?! The doctor told you to stay put until your arm's fully healed!"
"Fuck that quack doctor, I don't wanna rot in that fuckin hospital! And what're you doing here? Who asked you to come, fucking manager?!"
Mamori strode casually inside, right under his good arm barring the door, and started acting as if she belonged there. She fussed over his dirty bed sheets and his bare cupboards, and almost got to his underwear drawer if he hadn't warned her that it was rigged with his finest explosives, to which she replied with her best glare and a twitching of her cute nose.
She cooked porridge that day, as they looked outside his small balcony, towards the semi-harsh lights of the city while the sun was going down. The porridge was actually tasty, much to Hiruma's dismay. And Mamori kept silent and subdued throughout dinner, occasionally looking at him with an unbearable smile in her lips.
"Hn, fucking manager, you better get back to your mommy or she'll think you were kidnapped; kekeke…"
"Oh, don't worry Hiruma-kun, my mom will be out tonight, and I've already called her up and asked her permission to come here. She says 'hi and get well soon' by the way", she exclaimed with such mean pleasure.
Darn, he thought. How am I supposed to sleep when I know this brat's hanging around me?! What's she planning to do? Play "house"?
"I've changed your sheets so you can sleep comfortably tonight. Please get a lot of rest, or else that arm of yours won't heal before the Christmas Bowl."
"Tch. You don't have to tell me fucking manager. Stop acting like some lady-in-waiting."
She shook her head with dismay (and pity), "don't be so mean; you can't do everything alone, you know".
Blah. Blah. Such a nag (he mumbled), as he lugged his Mossberg with his left arm. And he went to bed, just to avoid more of her harassments. He heard dishes clinking, heard her moving his meager furniture around as she swept the floor; such a neat freak. He tried not to think about her being so dangerously close, and tried working on some new plays and formations in his laptop, then got a headache. This whole domestic thing is irksome, he thought, gritting his teeth. Ah, well, can't do anything about that, he was too tired and too weak to put up a fight. Maybe tomorrow.. yeah.. maybe she'll be gone by then..
And he's out.
Somehow, his room had more light in it that morning. Mamori fell asleep on the couch, while sewing his jersey or what was left of it. He could have easily gotten a new one (even more than one), but he's feeling a little superstitious, that he is willing to wear the fucking thing again. His shirt and his hair smelled like her, her shampoo or something. It must have been from the new sheets she's dressed his bed with.
Shit.
He smelled like a girl.
And what's with this warm feeling in his chest?! And why does she have to look like some fucking sleeping beauty in the fucking couch like that?!
He loaded his biggest and loudest pistol (a Smith and Wesson) and fired a morning call to the ceiling. That sure woke her up.
x x x
There was no porridge that morning. She took her broom and swept his small living room with the look in her eyes as if wanting to shove a dozen creampuffs down his throat. He cleaned out his guns, tried not to ask for her help. He sure had a hard time with his bandaged left arm.
"Whooooooaaa! So big – MAX!" Monta exclaimed, with Sena looking around bug-eyed.
They're here. It's the Christmas Bowl. The fucking brats are getting all worked-up. The rest of the team stared at the gigantic snow figures around and the screaming crowd as wild as the night air.
"Hmm… this is really it" she whispered beside him.
He looked at her. Is she fucking crying?!
"Tch. It's not yet over, better stop that fucking storm from coming," he warned almost too softly.
She brushed her eyes and immediately changed into that professional and determined manager mode.
She scares him. They didn't have to talk; they've planned for hours and hours until there's nothing left to plan about. And it scares him more that by just one look from him, she can dictate how the game must go. This game is as much as her game as it is theirs; a game that will be dictated by her, the master off the field.
He hates to admit to himself, but if it wasn't for her…
"Oi, fucking brats, start warming up!' he yelled along with the sound of M-16 rounds going off into the night.
He had mastered using his left hand, as to be expected from someone as gifted as he is. Surprisingly, not one word or his of disapproval can be heard from her side. Since that day in his apartment, there had been a silent agreement between them, somewhat. Probably it's because they both work best with each other as how they are right now.
It's fucking perfect, he thought.
The night, the crowd, the screams, the lights, the brats, the grass, the pig, the dog, and the fucking bozo grinning broadly at the side; just fucking perfect. He looked at her, straight into her eyes, a faint nod, and the game is about to start.
Even she is perfect.
x x x x x FIN
Is it just me thinking, or am I just being too mellow? (gye he he)
Am I the only one to notice there are less and less Hiruma vs Mamori battles in the manga?!
Waaaaahhhh
Somebody read please…!