Only for that Night
The first night after she returned, they both slept in the bed for the first time in however long it had been. The first night after she returned, her back always directly faced the wall as she dreamed. The first night after she returned, she slept without weapons strapped to her body. The first night after she returned, she slumbered curled up beside him, with her head on his chest. But only for that night.
Independence had always been her style. She acted the strong one, the tough one. It was her job to protect him at all costs, to stand watch over him, and to keep him safe. He didn't take care of her, not in those ways. It was not his forte, and her pride wouldn't have allowed it. In life, it was her duty, her honor to take care of him, to love him. There wasn't any other way.
He cared for her too, subtly. He always ensured that she ate, that he knew where she was, that she didn't take unnecessary risks. Never directly telling her, he did everything he could to prevent her from worrying about him. As far as he was concerned, she worried about too much, took on too much, as it was. But he loved her for her worrying, for the crease in her eyebrows when she denied that she'd been stressing about him.
When she was gone, as was inevitable, in her line of work, neither used a bed. The first time she discovered he was emulating her, she threw a fit. Unable to understand how he could be so irresponsible, to put his frail health in jeopardy like that, she screamed at him, anger fueled by fear. All he told her in return was, "I miss you, too, when you're gone." She stopped fighting. From that point forward, from the day she left to the moment of her return, they both slept on the ground; connected, at the very least, by the earth.
As he discovered, through life with her and experimentation, she slept lightly. If anyone entered the room where she slept, keeping his body between hers and the wall, as protected as she could make him, she would slip out of bed, already awake. Already wary. She couldn't care less if she never slept properly. Rest was nothing compared to his security.
Undressing her was a dangerous business. Despite the numerous times he suffered a self-inflicted shallow cut, as his hands crossed her body thoughtlessly, without searching for the ever-changing positions of her throwing knives, he continued to hazard the removal of her clothes. She teased him, in moments they sat alone, for being such a masochist, and he just laughed. She was worth all the pointy objects and small cuts in the world.
She didn't say it much, but he knew she loved him. He saw it in her looks, trailing him as he wandered their house, and her sketching pen, wandering purposefully across the page. He knew she loved him in the moments she tried and failed to cook, or fussed needlessly over his state of health. The times she looked back over her shoulder, ponytail flicking through the air, or the extra second with her mouth melting against his, before she vanished indefinitely, told him all he needed to know.
Every other night she spent with him, she lay on the outside of their bed, with knives close at hand, clasping his back to her chest. She scolded him for overexerting himself, and she woke at the slightest thing. But those nights were different.
The first night she returned, she stumbled in the door, exhausted, and leaned against his chest, drinking in his scent. The first night she returned, they compared new injuries, examining each and every bruise from sleeping on the ground, cut, scratch, or burn, and she did not complain that he needed to take better care of himself. The first night she returned, her blades clattered to the floor, discarded with the rest of her clothes. The first night she returned, he cradled her head to his chest and kept her back to the wall, as she curled into him.
He knew better than to expect it to last, though. By the time he woke the next morning, she had returned to being his impenetrable defense.
The first night she returned, he protected her. But only for that night.
i do not own Mai-Hime.
Open to interpretation.