Blood and Iron / MaStar Week 2020
Believe It/Naruto AU
Inspiration:
"Who taught you to write in blood on my back? Who taught you to use your hands as branding irons? You have scored your name into my shoulders, referenced me with your mark. The pads of your fingers have become printing blocks, you tap a message on to my skin, tap meaning into my body."
― Jeanette Winterson, Written on the Body
By their very nature, assassination missions were draining. Whether the kill comes from the shadows, from under a disguise, or from an outright confrontation, there is always a draw that is bone, soul deep. And after reporting their success, Rabbit and Fox are eager to get home. They part ways from the Tamashikage's office. Rabbit bounds over the rooftops, as light-footed as her mask suggests. Slipping past the layered traps and genjutsu on a third floor window, she steps into a tiled bathroom.
Still unable to relax despite her deep exhaustion, she braces her hands on the counter over the sink. The light is still off, but she can see a hint of her dark reflection in the wide mirror. Rabbit counts her breaths, her heartbeats, until there is a minute flash of chakra, just a tiny pulse, outside the window. It's to get her attention, like a teenager throwing a pebble at the glass pane. She doesn't respond to the noise except to slowly release her control over her chakra, which she had pulled in to conceal herself from enemies on the mission. She counts five more breaths before the window slides up and Fox's foot taps on the floor.
That, too, is intentional. He doesn't have to make any noise when he walks, but he chooses to. It gives her time to draw in one more breath and to stand up straight, fingers clasping the edge of the counter. The light is still off as she watches Fox step behind her via the mirror. His standard-issue sandals scuff on the tile. He raises a hand and removes the porcelain mask, setting it down on the counter slowly. Rabbit's hands are white knuckled; gloved fingers gently pry them apart, thumbs rubbing into her palms.
When they are relaxed in his grip, he lets them rest on the counter again. He reaches up as she already starts to tilt her head back, lean back into him. The white ceramic of her mask is pulled from her face slowly, and the world widens from the slits the mask allows.
Maka's head is pillowed by Black Star's shoulder, and even though she can still smell the cloying iron of blood and the heady tones of the forest and mud and rain, she closes her eyes and inhales deeply.
Black Star lets her rest there a moment while he turns on the sink tap and works to remove their arm guards and gloves. The Spartoi Black Ops uniforms are streamlined black fabric and bone white armor- or at least it is when it's clean. He always starts with hers first, unbuckling her right arm's guard, then her left, then carefully rolling the gloves off her arms. They go from fingertip to bicep and his fingers probe lightly for injuries even as they continue to remove the compression fabric.
The only indication that he reaches a tender spot where her elbow had overextended is when she drops her head to the side, pressing her forehead into his neck. Black Star clicks his tongue but hums thoughtfully. He removes his own gloves with less care and guides her hands under the now warm stream of the tap. He grabs the bar of soap from the dish and twists it a few times in one hand before putting it down and lathering up their hands. The sweat and grime that had seeped through their gloves washes away.
Maka likes how it feels, the warm water, the gentle soap smell that now hints beneath the iron in the room. Mostly she likes the solid presence behind her, along her back, cradling her in his arms, lacing their fingers together in the sink.
She moves then, lifting a hand to run one of the small hand towels under the stream for a moment before turning off the tap. He doesn't hold her in place, but lets her turn and lean back against the counter. Only when the damp towel moves toward his face does he brace himself there as well, one arm on either side of her. It doesn't make her feel trapped, just surrounded- no, protected. Black Star's head lowers and his eyes close while she slips her fingers into the knot of his hitai-ate with one hand and passes the warm cloth over his cheek with the other. The head band is removed quietly, placed with the masks, and his breath pushes out slowly, more freely when the sweat and grime is wiped from his brow. She's steady in her work, until the blue roots at his hairline are a little damp. The hand towel is soiled as it greets their gloves on the tile while her fingers card through his hair.
His hair is greasy, but the sigh he releases is worth it. Not even opening his eyes, he ducks lower and presses his lips against the crest of her cheek. He noses into her hair and his hands inch closer to her sides on the countertop's edge. He hums again and Maka's fingertips make little circles on his scalp until they reach his neck.
Black Star slips his palms up her sides and back, familiarly reaching for the clasps and buckles on her armored vest. There's a line of garroting wire that is stuck there, fussy and uncompromising, from when they cut their way out of a well-laid ambush on their return home. It gives way easily, though, when he implements the wire cutter that sits on the shelf next to them. He knows where it is from the many times they've had this same incident occur. There are other tools on the shelf and some first aid items, mixed in with normal toiletries and a small tacklebox of Maka's earrings and her mother's ring.
Maka works around his hands, tugging at his armor and frowning deeply at the gash in the thick fabric that covers his side. While their armored vests have hard-plated panels on the chest and back, the sides are mostly thickly filled fabric lined with a few layers of metallic mesh. She digs her fingers into the tear softly and when he twists away a little, her frown grows so deep it creases her brow. Black Star takes a half step back, allowing Maka to remove her own vest while he tugs off his own. It takes a few tries before he finds a way to do so without flinching. The cut goes through his black tank as well and Maka helps him roll it off, avoiding the wound.
Before she can turn to the first aid kit, he takes her hands in his, pressing them together. Her palms are flattened to his chest, engulfed by his, and he leans forward to kiss her forehead, right between her eyebrows where she has no choice but to lose tension. Maka still frowns, drumming her fingers into his sternum in the rhythm of his pulse for a moment, then she pulls one hand away to grab the med kit. The other pushes him back and down gently.
The small wooden stool next to the shower-tub combo is austere and utilitarian, like most things in her bathroom. A few seconds of separation and one of the lights in the bathroom is finally turned on. The overhead light remains off, but the desk light now pointed at the stool, at Black Star's wound is not as jarring to their eyes in the middle of the night. She can see what she's doing as she cleans the gash of errant pieces of fabric and debris. While she bandages him then tapes over it with a waterproof patch, he toes off his sandals and tugs off her own forehead protector.
Her mouth twists in the way it always does when she inspects her own handiwork and Black Star can't help but smooth his thumbs over her cheeks and along her jaw. Her nose scrunches cutely as he tilts her face up to him and he smiles lightly. Maka snorts at him and tucks a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth as she gets up from her crouch. The med kit is slipped back to where it belongs and her sandals and leg guards are added to the growing pile of muddy clothes on the tile floor. He stands from the stool slowly, testing how much he can stretch with the bandage and tape and moves to the shower, turning the knob on and testing the temperature.
When he turns back, Maka's tank, leg wraps, pants and under clothes are gone and he inspects the freshly exposed skin for injury in the low light of the bathroom. Seeing no broken skin or burns, only bruising, he shucks his own pants and leg bindings. He is not looking forward to laundry day being tomorrow nor darning the slices in the fabric. Testing the water once more, he steps into the spray and Maka follows. He shields her from it until she adjusts to the temperature and then he lets her stand beneath the water. As she does, he tucks his fingers into her hair, prying out the elastics and pins that held her hair braided close to her head. He works a little shampoo into his hands and eases his fingers through the knots until it lays down her back and shoulders.
They move around each other in the small stall, the last remnants of the coppery scent of blood being replaced with light citrus and mint. Fingers dig into sore muscles and suds are rubbed into scalps. The gentle spray washes away the mission. The water eventually runs clear instead of pink, and the small twigs and pieces of dirt from their hair and between their toes catch in the drain's protective mesh. Black Star reaches behind her to turn the overhead spray off while Maka plucks the drain mesh out with her toes to deposit outside the stall. The air is heated in the small space, still mostly dark as the tub faucet flares to life with more warm water. The plug is set and they sink down together to the tub floor.
Usually, Black Star sits behind her, being a bit taller, but his injury curls around his side just onto his back so Maka prods him in front of her. The tub fills around them as she tugs him back against her. Now his head lolls onto her shoulder. Her hands find their way across his shoulders and over his collarbones. His curl over her ankles, rubbing into the joint a little until the water is high enough for them to soak. He turns off the water and settles back gingerly.
Fingers drag through his hair and lightly trace over the scars on his face in a pattern: hair, eye, nose, lip, repeat. It's soothing and the sounds of the water sloshing rhythmically and the soft breath crossing the shell of his ear could put him to sleep right now. They're warm and safe and together and alive and it's all Black Star can do to reach behind him and slip his fingers into Maka's hair, guiding her face down to whisper against her lips. It doesn't really matter what he says- thank you we're home i'm so glad you're here i adore you- just that it is earnest and to her.
She presses back the same feeling into his skin and they are content.