If it were a choice between cake or death, I might just pick death. Here's to Henry the VIII's Psychotic... I mean Church of England. You'll forgive the Eddie, I had to indulge otherwise I really might have killed myself with a protracter while working on that stupid project. And I will be the first to tell you that death by protracter is not a comfortable thing, and really should be a fate avoided at all costs.
Disclaimers are floating around somewhere, but I'm not really worried anyone is going to mistake me for Kishimoto-sensei.
Theme 11 (Gardenia): Memory, Sweet Memory
When she worked in the gardens, crawling on hands and knees, she reminded him of his own mother. Not that his mother had gardened, but his kaa-chan had appreciated beauty. Somehow she'd passed that particular trait on. Perhaps it was because he was shinobi, the antonym of cultivation and reverence. Shinobi were symbols of death and discord, to see one at such utter peace in a place of growth and tranquility was absurd. And yet it wasn't. Hyuuga Hinata had never managed to perfect the art of being anything other than herself. It was natural to picture the princess and kunoichi with a smudge of dirt on her cheek, and the scent of sage to chase away the iron tang of blood. And he always thought she was beautiful.
For him, such a simple thing as an embrace had long been a luxury he wouldn't allow himself. He hadn't realized trying to break her of the same distance would do the same for him. Catching her in the kitchen, or in the narrow halls, or slipping out of her shoes; an arm around her waist, his nose buried in the bend of her neck, inhaling the soft vapors of vanilla. They both knew he was saying 'I'm glad you're here'. And every time, she'd reply with a quick press of lips against his cheek. 'I'm glad to be here'.
They say scent is the strongest link to memory, that certain smells will bring back a person's certain memories. Maybe it was true, maybe it wasn't. Blood was blood, and the sharp, metallic tickle would never change. Nor would the fact that he never let himself forget he had been an Avenger, sometimes buried beneath the ephemeral present, but always lurking, the reminder of why he fought. Another reminder walked the empty halls of the Uchiha house, humming under her breath, a lilt in her quiet steps.
The life of a shinobi is hardly a clean and cozy fairytale. It is bloody, riddled with the emotions one learns to repress. Sweat and labor are not the only stenches that permeate the black ANBU cloaks, there is also fear, guilt, and there is always blood. It was these she tried to scrub off her skin every night she could. He never faulted her for the memories she could not escape. Sometimes he wondered if they would ever be clean again. If he would ever be sane, be human again.
And when he breathed in the fragrance of gardenia in the damp raven hair as Hinata snuggled into him, he told himself he already was.