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“Completely illogical.”
“Well, what’d you expect? I kept tellin’ ya to take it easy until you were feeling better, but y’never listen.” Kanji’s voice was accompanied by some wonderful smell wafting from the general direction of the kitchen. Or, so she would assume, considering she couldn’t smell much of anything at present.
Huddled on the couch, Naoto gave a discomfited grunt and burrowed down deeper into her blankets. “I have case files to sort. I should be down there to assist with processing. I appreciate your concern, Kanji-kun, but I have nothing to accomplish sitting here idling my day away.”
“Yeah, and then I’d have Senpai’s uncle callin’ me to come pick your ass up at the station because you collapsed sick again.”
“I am fine—“ Her retort was cut off by a sneeze as she began launching a volley of mental curses towards the kitchen.
A soft chuckle. “Sure y’are.”
Across the room, the muffled crescendo of an old action movie blared determinedly from the TV. Naoto had never intended to own one upon moving to Inaba, but after her work-routine involvement with the case—and subsequently this town and its residents—became a much more permanent one, she’d noticed her blank little apartment growing a lot less spacious with additional furniture. Making it feel ‘more like a home’, as Kanji had put it.
A moot point; and ironic, she decided, considering it felt no different from any of her previous apartments when she was alone.
But she wasn’t alone. Not anymore.
And certainly not at the moment, as much as it was beginning to frustrate her. Kanji stepped into her field of vision carrying a small bowl, which he handed to her carefully before plunking down onto the couch beside her. “S’Ma’s old recipe. Used to make it for me all the time as a kid when I was feelin’ shitty, so it should help.” he informed her.
He didn’t mention that he’d spent all morning trying to decide on what to bring for a sick and stubborn detective whose stomach was probably about as tolerant as she was at the moment. Something light and easy to get down, but still tasty and comforting.
Naoto tried—and failed—not to sniffle again as she peered down into the contents of the bowl. A thin broth with bits of vegetables, chicken and seasoning. Some rice, too. The steam curled around her chin and she found herself regretting that she couldn't smell it. Even so, it was warm and wonderful on her aching throat. “It’s delicious,” she nodded once, smiling gently.
Kanji grinned. “Well, plenty more if y’want it. Just lemme know, yeah?”
She sighed, but Kanji could see the smile still clinging to her lips. “Noted.”
“Good.” He lurched to his feet again, and Naoto went back to sipping carefully at her soup as Kanji started rifling through a cloth bag filled with various bundles of colored yarn on the floor. By the time he returned, a set of knitting needles and half finished scarf in tow, he could tell Naoto’s attention had slid back to the movie. Some rugged and worn hero primed to go up against his deceptively simple ex-ally, surrounded by flashing lights and a bunch of other cheesed-up intensities that Kanji found a little ridiculous. But hey, Naoto seemed to be into it, at least a little. He settled back down beside her, careful not to jostle the bowl out of her hands.
In hindsight, maybe working on a surprise gift for somebody curled up less than two feet away from you wasn't his best idea in the world, but Naoto hadn't seemed to notice yet. Or, she hadn't asked, at least.
The scarf was only half finished; one tapered end beginning in a dark royal blue, arcing against two more waves of navy and cerulean, barred with white between each new color. It’d taken days to find the right shades of yarn, and even longer in the TV world watching Sukuna-Hikona whirl through the air to nail down the pattern of his wings correctly; let along translate them into a knitted scarf. But he was pretty satisfied with it so far. Just had to finish the white middle and mirror the pattern at the other end.
If all went well and she actually wore it, it’d hopefully keep her warm enough to make sure she didn’t get sick as easily in the cold.
A small cough pulled his attention back. Naoto was pushing away the covers with one hand, holding the now empty soup bowl away from the couch as she tried to maneuver herself to her feet. Kanji set his knitting aside and reached for the bowl. “No way, you stay put. I’ll put it away.”
“Kanji-kun, I am perfectly capable of—“
“Just sit tight. Y’want any more?”
She fixed him with a halfhearted glare, but shook her head after a moment. “…No, thank you. It was delightful, though. A nice contrast to the cold medicine, in any case.” For just a moment, he thought he saw a tired smile tug at the corner of her lips.
He smiled in return. “Tha’s good. Means I’m doin’ my job, yeah?”
By the time he’d packed away the leftovers into her fridge, cleaned up the sparse little kitchen (to this day he was convinced Naoto only came in here to prepare coffee and stow away boxes of takeout, he had to be the only one that gave it any use in his occasional visits) and resumed his place on the couch, Naoto had turned her attention back to the movie and burrowed back down into her blankets, just barely stifling a yawn. Kanji picked up his knitting again.
Just had to decide how long the white middle section should be. She could wear it draped over her shoulders, or looped a time or two around her neck and letting the ‘wings’ drape down her back… But that’d mean the scarf would need to be a bit longer—
Kanji felt a gentle weight rest on his bicep, and froze. Naoto must have drifted off, he decided, because there was no other reason she could be leaning against him now. Eyes closed, mouth parted slightly in what was the most relaxed and unguarded expression he’d ever seen on her face… Kanji blinked, hands still mid-stitch on the scarf.
Carry her to bed? No, picking her up was not only bound to piss her off (the last time he’d tried, he’d been rewarded with a queue of various pistol-related threats and a volley of indignant kicks and fists to his shoulders, even if she’d looked half-dead after pulling her out of the TV), but it’d be a dick move to wake someone up if they’d been exhausted enough to fall asleep like that in the first place. She’d been fighting a cold; of course she’d be tired.
...But she was gonna wake up with a kink in her neck if she kept leaning like that. Plus he couldn’t exactly knit with a detective sleeping on him. Kanji lifted his arm slowly, trying to maneuver her gently to the side of the couch. At least she’d be on a pillow, right? Had to be more comfortable.
Naoto shifted forward instead, and Kanji’s heart leapt somewhere up into his throat.
She stirred slightly, eyelids tensing and giving a muted hum, before draping her arm across his stomach, cheek pressed to his chest. She drew in one deep breath and let it out in a contended sigh (much clearer than her previous sniffling, Kanji noted absently) before her breathing leveled out, deep and even with sleep.
Naoto had on occasion, he rationalized, been somewhat affectionate in the past. Even if allowing Kanji to rest an arm over her shoulders or offering him back massages after long runs through the television was ‘affectionate’ by Naoto standards.
This, however, was new.
Kanji blinked again, forcing himself to stop holding his breath, and with a desperate glance around the room—as if the answer to dealing with these situations was hidden in one of her bookshelves—and hesitantly returned to knitting, if a lot slower than before, eyes darting down to her more frequently than they watched his stitching.
Damn, it was weird seeing her so relaxed. Naoto, who had always been made up of fine points, straight lines and binary reasoning, who could disarm him with a glare or melt him with the slightest tilt of her head and stilted smile, was infamous for being about as amiable as a pincushion.
…But even pincushions were soft, under all those needles. At least he was an expert on those.
His heart was thudding against his rib cage so loudly that he worried it might wake her. He couldn’t move her off of his chest, she’d wonder why he was moving her at all, and trying to explain would just end in a series of stuttered fragments of sentences. His hands kept moving at the needles, years of skilled precision and habit guiding them on autopilot, and the scarf grew until it began to drape over Naoto’s shoulder blades.
Hours passed. Or, they seemed to, at least. Kanji couldn't tell. The movie’s credits had begun rolling, and he’d even managed to settle down. His breathing slowed to match Naoto’s, his lips turned up in a faint, lopsided smile. Wasn't all that bad, right? Naoto had tucked her chin slightly, hiding her face from his view. Her fingers twitched and curled slightly around the fabric of his shirt. Folds of knitted white began to look like a second blanket over her shoulders—
Shit, the scarf!
Kanji bit his tongue to stop himself from swearing. He’d spaced, hadn't been paying attention. Now the white middle of the scarf was nearly double the length he’d intended. He sighed, putting down the needles and inspecting his work.
Wasn't like it couldn't be saved… He’d just finish it up with the colored, tapered end. Call it good. It’d end up being way longer than he wanted—Naoto was tiny (as vehemently as she denied it), and a scarf longer than she was tall wasn't going to help her image—but nothing he could do now. No sense in unraveling so much yarn.
He’d just have to focus this time. Make sure he finished it right. Hell, maybe she’d like it so much that she’d completely forget about being sick. Wishful thinking.
Kanji sighed, reaching to the bag on the floor to retrieve a skein of cerulean yarn.
Later, the dim flickering of static on the screen cast shivering shadows around the room, white noise filling the air. Outside the apartment window, streetlights struggled to do much the same as dusk fell on the little town. Their town.
The scarf lay in bundles around them, white and shades of blue looping against each other in loose folds. Kanji had leaned back, one arm bent underneath his head, the other laying gently over Naoto’s back, breathing synced with hers and snoring softly. Blankets washing over them in a still-framed tide. Two glinting pink knitting needles lay on the floor beside the couch.
His last thought before tilting his head and closing his eyes was that maybe they could sort all this out later. It was ok if this was just a fluke moment, chalked up to a cold and a warm bowl of soup, a nest of blankets and a ridiculous scarf… Because when they woke up, things would be normal again, right?
Until then, he figured, they could just rest.