on equal terms

A/N: A surge of inspiration, maybe. I've had this kind of idea brewing for a while, and maybe it's time to test it out.

Genma notices sixteen things when he is allowed to stay past morning.

Post-war. Mild AU. A ninja and a samurai try the "lovers" thing, hoping for things to go awry.

Genma notices certain things when he is allowed to stay past morning. One, the mattress on the floor is cheap, but the many layers of sheets are not. He counts four in total and wonders why there are so many, assumes that it's to make the cheap mattress scarce, cover it in layers of finery so that its owner wouldn't know the difference between this pre-used mattress and an expensive duvet. Two, there are a lot of expensive things here too. Scrolls with gilded edges. Books with intricate leather covers. Small mementos from various countries. Fancy-looking knives and swords on display racks. Armor that looks too ornate to not be considered someone's heirloom.

He looks at the helmet, at the asymmetrical crescent adorning the front, and thinks it's made for slicing rather than mere ornamentation.

"The crescent moon," a voice comes from behind him, "it is my family's crest."

He can't say that he knows the owner very well, but he knows enough. He knows about her body and the parts of her that are missing. He knows some of her names and titles, and the ways she uses them, let him use them. He knows enough about her to call this a threadbare semblance of a relationship between a man and woman, almost theatrical like those plays she's talked to him about–romantic, dramatic, and ultimately tragic. What was the term she used to describe it?

"I know," he says, "just admiring it, is all. Ninjas don't get anything as fancy."

"The standard uniform is enough," she replies, admiring the armor as well, "though I find the ANBU standard-issue a bit more appealing."

He knows the grin in her voice is from last night, when he showed her his old one. It was the middle of the night and she asked him whether or not his old uniform still fits him, after telling him how much more attractive Raidou was when he put the mask and vest back on in lieu of the jounin uniform.

"It's the shoulder, that hint of vulnerable skin," she explained as he shuffled out of his jounin vest, "that makes one want to touch it, graze it, peel it off and cut it with a knife."

The image is seductive in a macabre way, like one of those erotic horror stories she read to him–those that make him want to listen to her speak like the veteran storyteller she is, listen to the way the dirty dialogue and dirtier narration flow from her mouth in a brazen, almost confident way that he think this is the way she will seduce him from now on, with someone else's words, and blushing images of the impossible.

"Do you want to cut it?" He had asked her, showing off the old tattoo he'd almost forgotten about. The vest is tight around his chest, but he thinks it's because he's gained a lot more muscle since then, a lot more scars, and a lot more reason to stick to what he's good at–espionage and information-gathering.

That night–like every other night with her–he puts his skills to the test, gathers information, memorizes her ticks and tells. The way she leans back on his bed to eye him. The way she hums is a little too loud to be coy. The way she smiles briefly and turns away just as quickly because she's attracted, she's impressed, she's almost seduced.

"I want to bite it," she admitted as she looked out at the lone window, at the so-called view of someone else's firewall, "I want to trace my teeth over it and burn my tongue against it."

She waxes poetics when she can, he's noticed, when she's too embarrassed about telling him what she wants and how she wants it. He can't tell her this makes him feel younger than he already is, makes her feel stranger to him than she already is. He can't tell her either, about how this turns him on more than anything else, how her language spurs him on like those haunted men in those erotic horror stories.

"Your words or someone else's?"

He approaches her and stands between her legs, and she takes it as her cue to start undressing. She pulls apart her obi and shuffles her kimono loose. He doesn't tell her that he likes it when she comes to him dressed plainly, dressed simply. That means there's fewer layers to peel off, fewer layers to fuss about, fewer layers to throw around. Sometimes it surprises him how she would choose to come to him so bare, how she would push her leg of the kimono on purpose, show him that there's nothing else underneath it.

"A poem older than both our ages combined."

Sometimes she's like some ancient sage, he thinks, makes herself look and sound a lot older than she is. Probably from all those stories she's collecting. She doesn't have enough to open a library, but he assumes there's a lot more in her family home up in Yuukou. He sometimes forgets that she was something akin to samurai royalty, coming from a family affluent and wealthy enough to guarantee a close and comfortable life serving the nobles, but no– She gave all that up for a dream-like life of adventure and self-discovery, where somewhere along the way she'd lost an arm and traded it for the sword sealed inside her body, so she says.

"How does the rest of it go?"

She shrugs off her kimono and lets her breasts fall bare and pliant. She rises to stand and presses them against his vest. The armor is thick enough that he can only recall from memory how they feel against him. His fingers twitch and his hands ache, he wants to touch them. She traces a hand up his arm, a finger taps the tattoo twice, thoughtfully.

"I want to claim it, own it, plant it and take root in it." She continues, circling the symbol with her blunt nail, "I want to bury myself in it, hide forever in it, keep it with me and yearn for nothing."

He doesn't reach out to touch her, already aware of what she wants to do. It's all her ticks and tells. She wants to ride him. She wants him to keep the vest on and fuck him into his bed. She wants him clawing up at her, grabbing her breasts and thrusting upwards as she pants and sweats and tells him he fucks her too good. Too good, is the phrase she always uses–"Too good, too fucking good– I can't!"–and he can't understand why.

"I want to stick it inside me, twist my insides and rearrange my bones." She continues, and he's half-sure she's making this part up, "I want it impaled across my heart and through my lungs, give me ten thousand deaths and rebirths, make me come alive."

The way she smiles like she's about to laugh is what gets him.

"You made that up." He accuses playfully.

She falls into his bed like it's natural, like it's normal, and laughs with closed eyes and an open mouth. He thinks she looks radiant, much more than anywhere else he's seen her.

"How does it compare, then?" She looks up at him, using a foot to trace up his leg.

And he's become something of an appreciator for her literary taste, it's certainly a bit more to digest than Makeout Paradise at times, but the images are obvious enough, but the innuendos aren't as artistic or as sexy. She needs a lot more practice, but there's definitely something here.

"It's one way of saying you want my dick." He shrugs, sounding almost offended.

"Is it?" She isn't laughing anymore, "And if I said I meant your heart?"

He doesn't look at her then, instead it's his turn to look out his window and at his neighbor's firewall. He thinks about getting a place with a nicer view, almost as nice as the open fields and empty sky she has. They've never really talked about what this thing is between them, and they've never had any reason to.

Until now.

"I'd say it's a little vague." He says, still not looking at her.

He doesn't feel her eyes on him. And if there's a favorite thing he's learned, it's looking at someone without actually looking. He knows she's staring up at his ceiling fan. He can hear her sigh. He can hear her muscles move. She's going to stand up. She's going to leave. This is bad. One of them has fucked up tonight, and he's almost sure that it's him. Wait– She's suddenly sprung a confession on him, and he's the bad guy?

"Yeah." She echoes, "I thought so too."

Normally, this is where things start. Foreplay is easy with her because she is already so open, so pliant, so giving, and so wanton that all he has to do is respond to what her body tells him. They would kiss. They would touch. She would lick into his mouth and he would bite her neck. He right breast is more sensitive than her left, but it's her left leg that twitches and convulses when she's about to come. He knows her ticks, her tells, and right now she is telling him she's sorry.

"Hey," he breaks the silence by way of consolation, "we can talk about this when it's a better time."

He knows that she knows it means morning. When they're pretending they're competent adults without a hint of insecurity or any desire to retire somewhere far away and live out the rest of their lives as someone else. He doesn't sigh in resignation when she doesn't reply, but he sits on his bed and lies down beside her. They're both staring up at the ceiling fan now.

"When do you want to talk about it?"

He doesn't ask if she wants to, because it's already obvious that she does. That relieves him a little bit, at least they're on the same page about it.

"Do you want to talk about it now?" She answers his question with a question, and now they've started a loop about who really started this and why they haven't talked about this before they started… this.

It's strange, talking about it now when they've probably much fucked through sheets and sheets and told each other their deepest, potentially darkest secrets–maybe–so everything that comes after is… what? What is this? Is this what's called a relationship? A "friends with benefits" type situation? But they're spending time with each other outside of the bedroom. Their sparring sessions, for example. Or those bar nights with the others. Or those sudden trips and errands and crossing paths and… Wait. Is this a relationship now? Except without the labels and the public knowledge and– Maybe Raidou was right all along.

"You're not exactly dressed the part." He notes drily, tapping the skin of her hip with three fingers.

"Hmm," she nods before rising to sit upright and have her back turned towards him, "and neither is this the time or place for this kind of negotiation."

Negotiation, is it?

"Listen–" he starts, but he's cut off when she turns around and leans in close.

She kisses him on the cheek, close-lipped and chaste, almost like they're cute teenagers.

"Be seeing you." She says when she leans back, her expression tells him that she means it.

She pulls back her kimono and ties her obi with a practiced speed, like she's been doing this for years, probably longer than he'd been calling himself a lady killer, like she's used to this kind of lapse in whatever this is between them. And he can't fault her, can't really blame her, because he knows all too well why people like them don't do whatever normal relationship there is.

"Are we still good for tomorrow?" She asks.

Right. Today is Wednesday. They spar every Tuesday and Thursday, and do that thing right after. The post-spar thing. This thing. When they're both sweaty and panting, and the air is almost electric between them.

"Yeah." He replies instantly.

It's become routine now. It's become normal, almost. He's gotten used to it, used to her. He knows enough of her ticks and tells to say he knows her beyond her name and her title and the fact that she could be back to her lavish and extravagant home and cozy up with whoever she wants, but she decided to stay in Konoha, in that building out in the training fields with holes in the roof and groaning beams. Huh. Maybe he knows just enough, but not enough to satisfy his curiosity. So he's curious now?

She taps a finger on her chin, and he sees it in her shadow. "What do you feel like eating?"

He knows she cooks, and that's something that surprised him the first time. People like them don't usually master the finer domestic arts like cooking, but she does it exceptionally well. He doesn't know how she does it, but she does it better than he ever could–and they say the way to anyone's heart is through their stomach, skipping the chest plate and ribs, and straight through the tender parts of them.

He gives her the only answer he's ever given her, "Whatever you feel like cooking."

She turns to him then, without any audible response, but with a smile so gentle he doesn't think he's ever seen it on her before.

"This is nice," she says when he doesn't say anything else, "Tomorrow, then."

And that is her cue for goodbye, because she walks out his door, and everything is quiet and it's now that he notices the dust that floats around his room, particles in the moonlight following after her.

"Yeah," he echoes, "this is nice."

It is Friday now, and he is suddenly hyper-aware of everything he had considered normal between them. Sparring from late afternoon until late evening is almost opportunistic. And her offering him dinner, an invitation. It's like something preempted, almost planned. Was this the natural progression of things? Was this how relationships like these start?

"The vest or the mask?" He answers her question with a question.

Come to think of it, he's shown her his uniform, but not his mask. The bear, just one of the many Bears from his time in the ANBU, but personalized just for him with blue lining the eyes. Does she like the thrill of anonymity then? Does she have a kink for secret identities?

"Both," she replies before walking to her small kitchen, "that hint of muscle and the plainness of the mask are a… an arousing combination."

Arousing, huh? He makes a note to wear both the next time she invites herself over.

"Dangerous, almost," she continues, "how one can't see their face and base their actions solely on the body."

Genma has been trained, tested, and tried in the language of the body. He reads ticks and tells automatically, not habitually. The method is ingrained into him, beaten into him, pierced so deep in him that he has to will himself to stop– Right now, her body is not just sending him the signal, but it's blaring the alarm that she wants to play with him. She wants to mash him between her legs and crush him with her hips. But because she cannot read as well as he does, he knows she can't tell that he wants her to, that he badly wants her too.

Damn.

"I was never fond of masks, even as a child at festivals. I was scared of them, with their unblinking eyes and frozen expressions," she tells him, and that's something of hers he never would have guessed, "I would buy goldfish instead."

He almost wants to ask if those goldfish died the next day. He remembers the times when he'd buy goldfish during festivals, only to cry or mope about them dying within the next week.

"I'd buy them to set them free in the rivers of Yuukou."

He can hear her smile, and he imagines a smaller, younger her, in festive yukata and flowers in her hair, pouring goldfish into the water.

"Very generous." He comments.

"It's only right, I thought," she pauses, "fish are meant to swim freely forward, after all."

And there's that ancient sage within her, speaking in metaphors and anecdotes. Something wise and thoughtful, and something he'd never think could come from someone like her, hardened warrior with an eye for expensive things and good-looking people, himself as example.

"Swim freely forward." He notes.

"The choice is important," she says, and he thinks this conversation is turning into something else, "Would they swim in circles or swim forward?"

"What about backwards?"

Her answer is automatic, "Fish can't do that."

"Right," he thinks aloud, "fish can't do that."

Silence is what follows him. He doesn't move, but he hears the clatter of cutlery and pots, the sound of water coming to a boil, the slice of a knife against wood, the plop of solid ingredients into a stew. Her space is small enough to be considered intimate, just enough for one, maybe two if it's better furnished, if she wants it to be. And maybe that means something. Maybe the selfish idea that he's one of the very few she's ever invited to her personal living space means something.

"What I mean is," she says over the sound of cooking, "I like seeing faces."

That's an odd anecdote to use, he thinks.

"Whether mine or someone else's, it's… nice to see someone's real face."

Real. He thinks she's emphasizing it.

"Yeah," he doesn't know how else to respond to it, "nicer to see a familiar face."

"Not always," he hears her say in a hushed tone she thinks he can't hear.

And that in itself makes him even more curious. Who does she mean and why is she saying it?

"But," he hears her hesitation, "I like seeing yours."

Another confession–yes, he's counting.

"Me too." He laughs wryly.

"Do you…" he hears the stove slick, "like seeing mine?"

Of course he does, but he won't say it.

So instead he turns to her–smooth, real smooth, "I like seeing all of you."

And it's almost… cliché how she's turned directly towards him too, holding the pot with both hands ad a smile on her face. Yes, he likes seeing all of her.

She chuckles. "There's only one of me."

He likes the sound of it, has likened it ever since he first heard it one bar night when her pretty friend made a comment about Aoba being a "quintessential nice boy" and Iwashi aging well for a 45-year-old when he was actually the youngest in the group.

"More than enough for this world, for sure." He says under his breath, practiced enough to be sure that she doesn't hear it.

"But thank you," she replies and smiles even wider–it tells him she didn't hear it, "It's nice to hear someone thinks so."

She uses the word "nice" again, and he's heard enough people use that word to understand that "nice" doesn't always mean what it means. It's a filler word half the time he hears it, when people don't know what else to call something. Right. Something. This thing. This thing about them, between them. They should talk about it. Is now a good time?

He clears his throat when she sets the pot on the table. He notices there's two sets of plates and wonders why he didn't see it earlier or even noticed when she started preparing for two, for him. The idea itself is romantic and would probably make a younger him blush, but he's wary of this, suspicious even. Now he's hyper-aware of things that used to be normal and unimportant. Now he thinks he's going to let himself read things, her movement, her actions, the tone of her voice and the look on her face. He's going to look for more information, the tells and the ticks, and make sense of it all.

"Sorry," he says when he takes the seat across hers–Is it his seat? Can he call this his seat?–"about the other night."

The soup between them is simple. It's nearly identical to the soup she first offered him. The base is squash. There are leeks. Potatoes. Carrots. White onions. It's like she's cleared what's left of her vegetable drawer.

"Cleaning out the fridge?" he suggests when he gets the first taste–and he begins to believe that he can never, ever find fault with her when it comes to food.

"Yeah," she says, "the onion was starting to sprout."

Eating with her was simple and easy, but now it's not. The beginning of this conversation feels contrived, like it's a film trying to hide a boiling, bubbling… stew. What ingredients are in it? He doesn't know and neither does she. Who is going to stir this conversation? Who's going to lift that film and start it?

"Do you…" he decides it'll be easier for him, that way he can read her, "want to talk about it?"

She pauses mid-bite, but continues until she swallows. It tells him she doesn't, "Not now. After eating. The food is too good." He agrees with her.

"Sorry," he averts his eyes back to the soup, "After?"

She nods wordlessly, but with a smile. It tells him, "Yes. Don't worry." He believes her.

The rest of the meal is quiet, awkward, suffocating. Her arms are close to her body. She isn't looking at him. This tells him, "I'm scared of rejection." He wants to tell her he feels the same way. When their bowls are empty, he offers to wash them. She lets him. That told him, "Okay, I trust you." He says thank you out loud and she asks him why.

"This feels domestic." Is all he says.

"Yeah." She agrees monotonously, like she's slowly realizing it, like she's connecting the dots, pinning the map points and making a shape. "Domestic is… good."

No, it feels unnatural and not for either of them.

"So let's…" he drawls out, realizing he washes the dishes too quickly, "Let's talk about it."

"Okay."

He turns to her, she stares at him, and their bodies tell each other, "We can try."

"So…" he says when he sits back at the table.

She nods, "Yeah. We can… try."

Emphasis on "try".

He taps his finger on the wood. "Try what?"

"This," she gestures with her hand to indicate the both of them, "you and me."

"We weren't trying before?" He smirks.

She smirks back. It tells him, "We were testing. Turns out we're compatible."

"Call this what it is," she suggests, "lovers."

The syllables are long, languid, suggestive. He finds that he likes that word.

"Okay," he says, "exclusive?"

"Only if you want it to be." She closes her mouth.

It tells him, "Please want this as much as I do."

"I do." He tells her.

She smiles so wide and kisses him so quickly that he can feel her teeth press against his lips.

…is how he thinks the conversation would go if nothing bothered them. If not for the hurried knocking on her door and it turning out to be the eager Team Gai asking about training in the samurai art of meditative katas.

"They won't notice," he tells her when she returns upstairs to her quarters, body language telling him she's ready to give an apology.

"Gai might, but he's a friend."

"Haru's friend."

Right, Gai's her pretty friend's fiancé. But she shrugs and it tells him, "Haru won't tell."

It's his turn to give her a peck on the cheek–wholesome, chaste, almost familial, almost an obvious course of action. But he feels her head turn, and she kisses him fully, pushing the needle in his mouth aside. It tells him a promise, a threat, and a wish all at once, "I want."

And he wants that too.

So it's his turn to give her an abrupt goodbye, "Be seeing you."