Just a short ficlet I wrote, inspired by the katana that Six has on display in his room. (It can be seen in the ep Operation:Wingman). This is more of a character insight piece than a romance.
Some nights she couldn't sleep, for various reasons.
Insomnia. Stress. Worry. Sex.
Sometimes she couldn't sleep because she was running a million formulas and theories through her mind, or she wondered if she left her lab samples settling in the centrifuge. She worried over Rex and his teenage belief that he was invincible or she fussed over Six and his possessive vigilance over them.
Some nights, sleep was the last thing on her mind when she preferred to strangle the sheets in her passion-fueled grip, too enthralled to care that her body would ache the next morning.
Tonight, however, she lay awake staring at a glass of water.
Holiday released a slow sigh, finding absolutely nothing vaguely enrapturing about it, using it only as a focus point to resist the growing urge to turn in bed. Her mental tally reminded her she had already done so twice, and any more was bound to rouse the sleeping form against her back.
Uninterrupted sleep was the least she could offer him.
He already slept on the side closest to the door, silently submitting himself to be the vulnerable one, and she loved him even more for it. Sometimes, though, she only saw his selfless diligence as an extra exertion on him. Whenever she got up to use the rest room or get a drink, he would not return to deep slumber until she returned to the circumference of his embrace.
She was glad tonight was different.
Six smothered his face in the pillow, sleep overtaking him as his tired body sank into the mattress. She let him rest because that awful fight with an EVO earlier left him battered and bruised. He needed to sleep; that was why they had only slept tonight.
The water in the glass was as still as everything in the room, not that there was much else in his spartan quarters, and her eyes fell on the sole item that showed any meaning to the man who lived in it.
Balanced perfectly on its wooden mount, the most beautiful instrument of death she had ever laid eyes on rested in a niche on one of his cabinets, and every one of these nights that she lay awake, it would banish the noisy, cluttering thoughts tumbling in her mind as soon as her gaze fell on it.
Even though the weapon stilled her mind, it did not lull her to sleep. Like the horses on the sword guard locked in an eternal dance, unbridled questions stormed though her even more so than the ones before. These were important questions; deep and significant for her to ask to understand the sixth deadliest man in the world. And he answered them. With Six, she learned, it was give and take, and he answered when he was ready.
He was patient and accommodating to her questions, sometimes to the point of resignation, but she did not ever press him, even when her intense curiosity threated to overwhelm her. It was in her nature, to examine and dissect; she was a scientist after all. More importantly, she was the woman he loved, and she valued that above all else. His needs came first.
So as gently as she could move, she slid out of bed and completed the two strides between it and the dresser to see what she could answer for herself.
The katana curved downward in a solemn mimicry of its owner's perpetual frown, but its long hilt was tightly bound by deep crimson. Even with her uncultivated eyes, she knew it was an excellent piece of craftsmanship. The blade itself was sheathed in fine casing, but every surface was smooth and polished, immaculate and unblemished, as if any speck of dust was afraid to touch the weapon.
So was she.
This sword was important to him, and as she continued to be entranced by it, she thought perhaps she could never understand just how much it meant to him.
She bristled slightly as her trance was broken when she felt his arms encircling her from behind and he rested his chin on her shoulder.
"What are you thinking about?" he sighed into her neck.
She angled into his touch. "Nothing." A sudden reservation took ahold of her and whatever questions she had now seemed inappropriate to ask.
He stood up a bit straighter, but pulled her closer to him and she leaned back slowly onto his chest as he began to speak, his tone solemn and deliberate.
"It's 18th century, Edo period. It belonged to the grandson of a samurai. It's a meitou, a sword that has earned a name. They are the most prized of katanas, hand-made of the finest material, and passed down through generations." He paused. "Having it passed to someone outside of a clan bestows the utmost honor and respect."
He was sharing something very personal, and she listened to him with rapt attention. She could hear its significance in his voice, feel it in each dignified breath he took to speak about it as another hush quieted him. He exhaled sharply and did not take another breath for a moment before he continued.
"Haniu Minami was the last of his clan," he finished.
She took a breath and held it, letting his valued revelation settle in her mind. He had been given the greatest respect a warrior could achieve in a culture that valued honor above all else. She felt she understood the man she loved a little more.
"What name did this earn?" she asked, all other questions finally gone from her.
Six inhaled and didn't answer immediately. "It means 'hurricane whisper.'"
Holiday found herself furrowing her brows in confusion and she heard him chuckle lightly into her hair.
"I'll explain later." He breathed in the scent of her hair again. "You've been keeping me awake."
She frowned and turned around to face him, grimacing as she made out his bruises in the dim light.
"I'm sorry."
She felt his hands trail down slowly, past the fabric of his shirt she wore until they touched her thighs.
"Show me."