Title: Gunsmoke Signals
Author: ShadowDemon-Gengar
Character Pairings: Hiruma/Mamori
Genre: Romance/Drama/Humor
Rating: T
Warnings: Hiruma's Infamous Vulgarity
Disclaimers: I own nothing Eyeshield 21
Summary: A collection of drabbles, one-shots, and mini-stories dedicated to the Hiruma/Mamori pairing. Based on the "100 Themes" and LiveJournal's "30 Distractions" challenges.

Recommendation(s): Keep story's width at "3/4"; adjustment settings are at the top-right corner of the site, where the different font styles and sizes are located. "3/4" is the original width that this story was written in.

Theme XXXIII: Seeing Red

A time-out had been called.

Everyone on the team removed their helmets as they walked off the field and toward the bench currently being vacated by their spiky-haired captain, their motherly manager already there next to him. Even as they surrounded the bench, intensely listening to him as he went over a plan, they had all taken a bit of notice on the rather deep split at the corner of his mouth. It was bleeding thickly, a couple of crimson droplets dripping off the narrow angle of his chin to blend in with the red of his uniform.

It had been gut-clenching, watching the violently powerful Agon force their fearless commander into a face-planting against ground. If he hadn't had the faceguard to protect him, the damage would have been much worse: a broken nose . . . maybe chipped or broken teeth . . . deep contusions . . .

But even as they listened to him bark out orders, they ended up getting distracted . . . by Mamori's small, delicate hand lifting into view, quietly catching the uninjured side of his face, restraining him from whipping his head around as he continued to spit vulgarity-sweetened instructions at them.

"Fuckin' fatty, I want you to hold that damn line, even if you die! Fuckin' Huh-Huh Brothers and fatty junior, you better help him or I'm gonna send you straight to Hell! And you, you damn shrimps –" his heated tirade continued on, but they didn't hear him. None of them did. They couldn't.

They were too stunned by the scene calmly going on in front of them. Their hellish leader was actually being oblivious to Mamori's hand gently cupping the sharp angle of his jaw, holding him still as she carefully dabbed an alcohol-soaked cotton ball against the tiny wound in his lip.

They couldn't believe he didn't notice . . . especially when she then moved her hand slightly, her thumb crossing over to press the fluffy medical ball against the cut, holding it there firmly. It restricted most of the movement of his jaw as he spoke, causing his words to sound muffled, and yet he was still unperturbed.

They blinked.

She brought a dampened cloth to his face and started to gently wipe away the thin streak of blood from his jaw, all the while she was paid no mind.

" – Got it, you damn brats?" he shouted, startling them back to attention.

"Y-Yeah!" they all nervously replied in unison.

"'Yeah'?" he cooed sweetly, his emerald-green eyes glinting dangerously. He stood up just as the blood-smeared cotton was pulled away from his mouth. "Then why aren't you on the fuckin' field?! GET MOVIN'!"

Tossing his helmet back on and whipping out a gleaming, polished shotgun, he grinned evilly. "YA-HA!"

With cries of terror they were chased back onto the field, shotgun shells exploding into the sky and Hiruma cackling like a mad jackal as he jogged after them.

The whistle blew, signaling the end of the time-out. Everyone fell into their appointed positions.

Hidden behind the huge, bulky mass of Kurita and with his other teammates' backs faced toward him, no one witnessed the narrow, pink tongue darting out to causally slide over the cleaned cut.