.
.
Madara decides to take a shower.
He opens the glass door. The shower head sticks out from the ceramic tile; this is where the water comes from. There is a lever and vague instructions to TURN RIGHT FOR HOT WATER Hashi had taped onto the wall - presumably she kept forgetting how to operate it.
Madara glances behind his shoulder. The bathroom is locked. The electric light is buzzing above him. He has no qualms washing in the river but the idea of standing naked in a futuristic glass box is unnerving to him.
"Do you need help?" Hashi's voice floats just outside the door.
Madara scowls. "I am fine."
"I put a little sticky note on the handle, the water turns on when you turn it to the right-"
"I can see that. I am fine."
"Okay." He can hear her footsteps as she walks away from the bathroom.
He pulls off the purple cassock, which drops around his feet.
In the kitchen, Hashi is humming, listening to what they called a "radio" as she washes rice in a black kettle. Tsunade had gifted her with a rice cooker, which is amazing in its simplicity - wash the rice and press a button. Hashi beams. The future is amazing!
In the bathroom, the shower stops. She can hear the sound of a glass door opening, wet feet stepping onto the cool tile.
"Kuso. Shit-" Madara's voice, and then the sound of something slipping and a loud thud; the toilet flushes. Hashi walks quickly to the bathroom.
"Madara?" She raps her knuckles against the closed door. "Everything all right?"
"Dammit, Hashirama-"
"Are you trying to use the toilet? Because it's easier to aim if you lift the seat-"
"I am not using the toilet. Go away."
Hashi shrugs and goes back to the kitchen.
The rice cooker is on. A few pieces of salmon are charring beneath the broiler. The door opens from the bathroom.
Hashi is stir-frying vegetables; she looks up briefly and sees Madara furtively pressing a towel to his chest, before disappearing into the bedroom. She goes back to stir-frying.
She hears the bedroom door open. "H-Hashirama?"
"Yes?" Hashi turns.
Madara is sticking his head out of the doorframe. He's still clutching the towel. "I was wondering if you could heal something for me."
"Of course." Hashi wipes her hands and walks toward the bedroom.
Madara is only partially dressed, wearing pants and presumably the underwear she got for him ("Why would you give me this?!" Madara had said, horrified, while Hashi laughed and helpfully reminded him that all he had was his battle gear and a loin cloth). He keeps the towel pressed against his chest, not looking at her.
"What needs healing?" Hashi says. Madara scowls.
"I was hoping you could get rid of this." He lowers the towel. The weird Hashirama-face lies flat on his chest like a smashed bug, its eyes closed in a preternatural calm.
Hashi blinks. "Oh. Yeah, of course."
"It won't be too difficult?"
"I mean, I could just cut it off..." they both stare at the cartilage of the nose and how the chin seems to jut out in three dimensions. Madara clears his throat, his face twisted into an embarrassed glare.
"Um. I think it'd be easier if you sat down," Hashi says, and Madara quickly sits, not looking at her. He's scowling hard, a bright blush cracking across his cheeks. Hashi pushes down the urge to make fun of him, then lifts her hand. A wave of blue chakra forms like a scalpel.
The thing - transplant? Cell bloc? Her face? - falls onto the floor, then immediately shrivels, involuting into an indistinguishable pile of ash. The wound on Madara's chest quickly heals, the skin knitting and leaving a healthy scar, which is translucent and pink.
"Thank you," Madara says, and he doesn't look at her, "for not mentioning this."
"Ah, no problem," Hashi says, and she heads back to the kitchen, leaving him in the bedroom.