Chapter Text
You really needed a good sleep. You knew it, your swords knew it, the birds twittering outside your window were eyeballing you with what you swore was concern, and it was time to admit you had a problem. A very temporary problem, you insisted, that would resolve itself as soon as you finished one more page of pointless bureaucratic busywork. Sadly, Horikawa Kunihiro could count, and he seemed intent on making sure this last page wasn't the prologue to another all-nighter.
"You know we can hold pens, Master," he offers cheerfully, as though he doesn't have one hand firmly around your wrist. It takes you a moment to realize you were mid-reaching for another infuriatingly blank form. You can't repress a groan of... agony? Exasperation? Despair at the unending cycle of life and death, work and sleep? You can't tell that much. It sure is a groan, though, and a big one judging from how the corners of Horikawa's mouth quirks up.
"As much as I'd love to let you do all my paperwork for the rest of my life, Horikawa," you say, leaning back into your seat and acutely aware, if utterly unconcerned, of how your loyal aide still hasn't seen fit to let go of your hand, "I have to sign these. One by one, every time, forever."
You jab one finger with your free hand at the offending line near the bottom of your most recent conquest. Horikawa hums contemplatively and lets your wrist slide from his grasp, bending down to get a better look at your handiwork. His earrings glitter in the glow of the single lamp working overtime to light up your chambers.
"Could one of us really not do this?" Horikawa asks, a skeptical note in his voice. "This doesn't look very complicated."
You sigh. "I hear signatures are hard to fake."
"Have a little more confidence in us." Horikawa plucks the pen you were using from the desk and flashes you a small smile. He's trying to be cool, but all it does is remind you of how he couldn't figure out how to hold a pencil for a month after he was summoned. You smile at the mental image, then see what he's writing on the corner of a nearby sheet of scrap and jolt up.
"Wait, you can do forgery?"
Horikawa straightens his back, waving at the perfect copy of your signature like a proud parent trying, with mixed success, to present a favorite child without looking too pleased about the whole thing.
"I've practiced."
"Wow." You let the silence stretch out a bit so he can enjoy your amazement. The sparkling in his eyes, which flick between your face and his master creation, tells you he does. "So you remember that bit about doing all my paperwork for the rest of my life?"
"Consider it a deal," he chirps without missing a beat, offering you a hand, "if you do everyone a favor and go to bed."
With a normal person, you could safely assume the first part is a joke. Meanwhile, you've had too many swords jump at the chance to turn a passing joke about lifetime servitude into reality to make that assumption. "Don't actually," you whisper as you place your palm in his.
The teasing glint in his eyes softens as he helps you to your feet. "Only if you want me to, of course."
His tone is so warm and comforting that you fancy it would make a nice pillow. The government-grade one against your cheek that feels and sounds like it's full of gravel could learn a thing or two about coziness from Horikawa's voice, that's for sure. It's all you can think about when he bids farewell and the door to your now-dark room slides closed, and the echo of his words still linger by the time you fall asleep.
You wake up about to die.
There's a sword coming for your face, then there's a sword stuck straight through your pillow into the floor and your face is in a different spot, a little bit to the left because sleepy-you had the wherewithal to move that much, but now your nose is inches away from a mouth full of grotesque fangs and eye sockets that bleed black smoke and this isn't a strategically sound position to be in at all, so you figure you had better hop to it, "it" being screaming. "It" also involves a lot of scrambling and ducking around the sword that is no longer stuck in the floor but very near being stuck through your skull.
Somewhere along the line, you've managed to get to your feet. It's at this moment that Horikawa, your signature-faking and life-taking gift from the universe, bursts through the door and sinks his blade into the would-be assassin's shoulder blades before the creature can even realize he's there. Your brain takes a moment to marvel at what an incredible morning person Horikawa is and at your own good fortune not to be in an embarrassing position when he showed up. Also to not be dead, your brain amends with a little internal nod. Not being dead is almost as important as basking in how pretty Horikawa looks with blood on his face in the dawn light. Then he smudges it with the back of his hand, and you can feel your standards for what constitutes a pretty person start spluttering like a sick goose.
"Good morning, Master." Horikawa yanks his wakizashi from the offender's back and meets your eyes as its corpse begins to disintegrate, his breath entirely even. "You aren't hurt, are you?"
Deep breaths. Be normal. "Nope. Thanks for the help. Also good morning!"
Horikawa lets out a sigh. "You're a bit too used to this, I think."
You can't disagree with that. In truth, you aren't sure how you always managed to survive these regular attempts on your life. You always chock it up to a combination of good reflexes and divine favor, to which any reasonable bystander will intercede with an observation that the second factor must be doing the lion's share of the work because nobody with good reflexes trips on thin air as much as you seem to, yet here you are, bumbling your way from one miracle to the next. If it is luck, you have a lot of it--but looking at your lovely semi-divine companion in front of you, you feel like that much is obvious.