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An old, flickering lightbulb catches her eye from her peripheral. It's like a clock, ticking rays of artificial light fly through the air. Flailing between extinguishing completely or shining as it should, the lightbulb casts undecided flashes across every surface in the small room.
It's irritating.
Despite her lack of an eye, Baiken's senses are still as sharp as they would be if she didn’t still lack the parts she’s lost. She notices the lightbulb's incessant flickering as it presumably begins to die out.
It's not a particularly nice inn, nor is it a particularly nice room; it's just subpar, the only kind of condition that the combined wallets of a retired bounty hunter and an artisan of mirrors and parasols can afford.
It's got all the normal things— the necessities, Anji had called it. A bathroom of an average size, a few miscellaneous lamps, and two beds— one which Baiken had delegated for both her and her taller male counterpart, and the other for the young girl they’ve taken in.
The wallpaper peels and the lights flicker, and it mildly irritates her, but there’s a roof above her head, and for that, she doesn’t complain. Not as she listens to the rain pattering against the room’s singular window; no, she’s simply thankful to be out of the storm.
It’s a calm sort of night, domestic and filled with hazy nostalgia. With this traveling patchwork family, it’s not too common a sensation, but occasionally, on nights where silence blooms like a flower, where the lamps and candles around them glow amber, it feels like home.
Home. What a fickle idea.
It’s been long since Baiken has had a home; she’s travelled far more than most people, and yet she’s never found home— never had one to leave and never had one to return to.
It would take her twenty years to learn that home isn’t a place, but rather a people; her two, to be exact. She doesn’t have a home to leave or return to because they come with her wherever she goes, her smug and equally sappy man and her timid and tired young girl.
God, retirement’s turned her soft.
But maybe it’s for the better, she realizes, sitting cross legged on an oddly stuffed, though somewhat comfortable, mattress. She doesn’t simmer on that thought long— it brings up too many questions— and as the flickering lightbulb in her peripheral finally fades away, so do her more dangerous thoughts.
Night turns her nostalgic; a melancholy air about the time makes her think too hard about stuff. She’s had her share of things to mull over; her and Delilah’s future, the roaring flame between her and Anji, things to do with her now empty time.
She’s let down her walls to her two, and that’s enough for her, at least for a little while. Trust isn’t an overnight thing, and while she’s certainly gotten more open with her heart, it’s still a process. She’s recently learned to take it one day at a time.
Delilah sits before her, her short legs dangling off the side of the ronin’s bed. For being twelve, Baiken supposes she’s rather good at keeping still, which is more of a miracle than anything else. If she had to take care of two Anjis…
The thought makes her laugh.
Delilah’s stillness makes it much easier for Baiken to brush her hair though. With all the gentleness of a small babbling brook, the latter combs through the girl’s hair, straightening her short, dark green locks.
She doesn’t remember why she does it, when it became a routine. Delilah’s old enough to be able to detangle her own hair, and Baiken’s certainly not suited to that kind of thing, both due to her brashness and her lack of one functional human hand; an instrument that would certainly make the job easier.
It must have started somewhere, but it’s a memory that Baiken can’t recall; it feels as though it’s always been this way. Before bed, every night that she can recall, she’s brushed Delilah’s hair— the girl doesn’t even ask her do it anymore. She simply walks up to the older woman with her hairbrush and sits down in front of her. It’s wordless; it’s just something that happens in their nightly routine, whether they’re camping under trees or resting in some shabby inn.
The why is slightly more difficult, if only because of her pride. Baiken can play all she wants, but she’s come to foster a particular fondness for this child; this girl who’s been so broken by the world, so helplessly trapped in her mishandled grief.
It reminds her of herself, if she’s honest. Baiken’s has been that little girl, alone and blood thirsty, hungry for revenge. Her whole life had fallen apart because of it; a damage done that took her twenty years to undo.
She won’t let this child end up like her, not in a million years.
And it would be easy, if that were the only layer to it— but love is a cake, full of layers and layers.
Baiken struggles with pride, with constantly keeping her facade strong, never succumbing to any kind of weakness. She’s built her iron wall for years, and somehow the two most strange people have broken it right down, leaving her heart an open door.
It should be an easy thing to cope with, certainly, but it isn’t, not for her. She’s seen love as a weakness for many years, and though she had once stupidly vowed that she’d never love again, she simply can’t help when Delilah’s around.
Not that she’ll ever admit it aloud.
Not that she’s even realized it yet.
Not that she’ll even realize it for a few months.
Delilah is a temperamental girl, full of temper and spunk. She’s got a heart full of random things, like writing and drawing little pictures and playing with ants. There’s a child within her that Baiken hadn’t seen the first time they met, but it’s come out much more recently.
She’s still got that sharp tongue and almost uncanny ability to not listen to a word Baiken says, but she almost doesn’t mind. The girl is a delight. She hums to herself when she doesn’t think Baiken or Anji can hear her. She memorizes basic words in Japanese, just to impress her seniors. Should she step on a bug, she apologizes. She has this laugh, giggling and sweet, that Baiken’s only heard once or twice, but it’s a heartwarming sound, enough to thaw the ronin’s once frozen heart. She doesn’t smile often, but when she does, it’s almost infectious.
She doesn’t leave Baiken’s side, not usually; it’s like she’s stuck to her with glue. She had once hated it, but now she panics when Delilah leaves her line of sight. The shy girl hadn’t been as open to Anji when she’d first met him, though she’d come around. Baiken liked this; watching the two of them together was endearing.
Delilah sleeps a lot, talks in a monotone voice, and still mostly accents her black dress with a somewhat gloomy frown, but it doesn’t change anything for Baiken, not with how much she cares for the young girl.
She’ll come to accept that soon.
Baiken listens to the sound of running water through pipes above her (Anji taking his sweet time in the room’s adjacent shower, as he tends to do) mixing with the storm just beyond the walls of wood and brick around her as she runs the brush through the back of Delilah’s hair. It’s soft and smells like peony— Baiken recognizes it as her own shampoo (a gift from Anji; she’d never wear something scented so floral otherwise) and for some reason, she doesn’t even mind it. In fact, it makes her smile.
Baiken thinks that the girl could be asleep— she has slept sitting up before, and with how tired she constantly looks, she wouldn’t blame the girl for it either— but then she speaks, voice monotone.
“I’m not gonna call you Big Sis again.”
Baiken raises an eyebrow at the child’s antics. “Finally remembered that I got a name, huh?”
Delilah ignores her, as she usually does. “You’re not like a big sister to me anymore.”
Honestly, she can be a bit of a wildcard sometimes. She says things a little strangely, forming each and every sentence like a riddle begging to be decoded.
Baiken huffs out a laugh, amused by the girl’s grumpy tone. “No?” She drags the brush through Delilah’s soft hair again, as the girl falls silent.
She does this often too; it’s as if she’s simply got a list of things within her head that she feels she must say, always without giving context. Baiken drops it and continues to run the brush through her hair. It’s hardly even tangled, but Delilah likes being taken care of, even if she won’t admit it.
“I’m gonna call you Mom.”
Baiken almost stops breathing at the child’s sentence. It’s said with such conviction and honesty that she’s all too certain it’s not some shitty prank. “You thinkin’ I’m old enough to be your mother, girl?”
Per usual, Delilah doesn’t answer Baiken’s question. “You're like a mom to me.”
Baiken barks a laugh. “Like hell I am,” she replies, setting down Delilah’s brush to her side. “I’m about as motherly as a rock, and you know that.”
“You’re the only mom I’ve ever had.” Delilah’s voice is quiet as she admits it.
Baiken doesn’t quite know what to say to that, how to comfort her. She struggles to find the right words as she moves backwards on her mattress. “Alright, alright, call me what you like,” she decides on, voice a bit gruff. Delilah turns around and looks at her as she slowly slides under her bedsheets, situating herself on her back. “Go get in bed now. It’s late.”
Delilah just stands there looking at her, fidgeting with the ends of her black nightgown. She looks up at Baiken with an indiscernible stare.
“Go on. We got’cha a whole bed for yourself.” Baiken points at the queen sized mattress right next to her own. “Get all situated and Anji’ll turn off the lights when he gets out of the shower.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why do I have to sleep over there?”
Baiken almost groans. “Delilah, it’s too late for this shit. Go get in bed.”
Delilah stops fidgeting with her pajamas, and starts to walk towards Baiken’s side of the bed. She doesn’t even have a chance to speak before the girl says, “I’m gonna sleep next to you.”
There’s no “Can I”’s or “I want”s about it; Delilah doesn’t ask, she declares. She slowly weasels her way into the bed at Baiken’s side before curling up, resting her small little head against Baiken’s chest.
Dammit, she’s one headstrong kid.
“The hell did I get that other bed for, then?” Baiken asks, more so rhetorical than anything. She doesn’t mind it as much as she lets on— in fact, she finds it almost sweet that this little girl would want to fall asleep in her protective arms, like a child might do with their mother…
Huh.
She doesn’t know what compels her to do it, but she puts her one arm around Delilah’s small body and holds her close. One look down at the girl’s face shows that she’s peaceful. Both eyes closed, mouth barely ajar, she looks as if she’s asleep.
But then she speaks:
“Good night, Mom.”
Baiken’s heart stalls at the name. She can’t put a finger on it, but it just feels… right. Her lips move on their own, breaking into a smile.
“Night, Lilah. Get some good rest, okay?” Delilah only mutters a halfhearted sound, before falling into silence. Baiken looks down at her for a moment, before gently rubbing her back. Delilah's breathing starts to slow as she does so. A few strands of her dark green bangs slide down her pale forehead.
There's a slight smile on her lips. It would still look like a grimace to anyone who doesn't know the girl, but to Baiken, the woman who's grown to understand her very slight facial expressions, she sees it. The corners of her lips are barely upturned as her dimples start to appear along the few freckles lining her nose.
A thing called pride rears it's head within Baiken as she looks at the girl— the child who fixed the ronin’s ruined heart, who stood by her when the whole word wouldn't, who loves her despite the blood on her hands.
Baiken's never taken care of a child, never wanted or needed to. She'd never been a terrible fan of children, or people, rather. It had been easier alone, looking out for herself and herself alone. But there's something nice about looking out for other people. It isn't as easy as it was when it was just her, but it is better; she was never meant to be alone. She’d simply realized it later than she should have.
“Sleep well,” she whispers to the girl. Delilah’s already asleep, but it doesn’t matter; she won’t have to see Baiken so vulnerable, so loving. The child won’t hear the sentiment, won’t hear how much her guardian cares for her, but she doesn’t need to. She can tell, regardless of how Baiken acts— she’s always been able to tell.
In her heart, Baiken hopes that her few words will soothe the young girl, even if she hadn’t been awake to hear them. She leans her head back into her slightly plush pillow and finds her eye lingering on a spot of wallpaper ruin, as the floorboards of the room creak.
Anji walks into the main room, dark brown hair damp and almost slicked to his head. A bead of water runs down his temple from his scalp as he runs his fingers through his wet locks. His eyes fall on Delilah and Baiken, and a grin forms on his lips.
“If you say anythin’, I’ll cut you down,” Baiken says, threat lacking any power by virtue of her exhaustion.
From beyond his glasses, which sit perched on the bridge of his nose, she can see a twinkle in his eyes. Amusement. “I wasn’t going to,” Anji replies, faux defensively.
Baiken can read him like a book. She knows what his response would be— same as it is every time he sees both the woman and the girl together.
”Glad you checked my mirror?”
Baiken rolls her eye and watches him for a moment; looks at the baggy blue sweatpants that fit loosely around his waist and the lack of any shirt across his broad and quite defined chest.
He laughs, soft and euphoric. It sends a rush through Baiken’s heart; she knows he can tell. “Caught your eye, have I?” He’s playful in his words, knows he can tease her all he likes, knows that she’ll never hurt him for it. It’s a privilege of his— one only he and Delilah have, despite their differences of both knowing and using it.
“Hush,” she barks, quiet enough to not rouse the sleeping child at her side. She casts a glance down at Delilah anyway, just to make sure. Her eyes are still shut, expression still peaceful. Baiken has the urge to run her fingers through her hair just a moment, just to comfort her.
The mattress dips as Anji sits down on it; its springs creak under his weight. Baiken looks up at him, only to find a look of relaxation in his eyes. He is pleased, with a smile of contentment on his lips.
“I like it when you smile,” Anji says. He glances over at Delilah, then shifts his gaze back to Baiken. “You’ve got a really lovely smile.”
She raises her eyebrows and tries to frown, tries to erase the grin from her face— lest he continue to tease her about being soft-hearted— but her efforts are in vain.
Anji reaches forward and cups her jaw with a large palm. The pad of his thumb falls just below her cheekbone, and tenderly caresses her skin. He treats her like a statue of glass, like an old portrait; something to protect, something beautiful.
“Pretty.” He mutters it, the sentiment just creeping out of his mouth. His hand wanders further down her jawbone, settling just above her chin. His thumb finds itself on her lips, brushing over every detail and texture upon the rose colored flesh.
It makes Baiken laugh, though she feels embarrassed to do so. “What the hell’re you doing?” She asks, more kind than she would if it were anyone but him. She almost gasps the sentence through indulgent laughter.
Anji smirks; the ends of his eyes crinkle up in happiness. “I’m memorizing you,” he says, so honest and sweet that it makes her blush, of all things. “Drinking you in.”
Baiken rolls her eye, though she can’t hide how flattered she looks. “Goin’ romantic on me?”
“My favorite pastime,” Anji replies, before gently pulling his hand back. Baiken almost hates herself for chasing after his touch.
Almost.
“I’ll be right back,” he says, with a smile so honest, so open and sweet, that Baiken’s heart thrums with life in her chest. “Have to turn out the lights.”
Baiken huffs, a smile plastering her lips upward. “Be quick about it, yeah?”
Anji’s eyes widen, before he grins. “Playing along tonight?”
“It’s my favorite pastime,” Baiken replies, a mixture of sarcasm and complete seriousness. Anji laughs as he stands from the bed; it’s a boisterous sound, loud and thrilled.
She likes his laugh. It’s like a good bottle of sake, an afternoon lying under the sun; relaxing, burning with passion and flavor. It warms her from within, makes her fall in love with him all over again.
He walks across the small hotel room and flicks a few switches. The darkness that blossoms as a result is no match for the brightness of his smile, of his laugh. Baiken curses herself for yearning his return, and when she can hear the mattress squealing, when the bed dips a bit, slanting her legs sideways, she smiles to herself. It’s her secret; she doesn’t have to tell him how much she cares for him.
(He knows her like the back of his hand. She loves him and he can see it in every look, every laugh, and every smile she tries to hide.)
The sheets rustle in the shadows as he settles in for the night; his warmth is a beacon. She can feel him as he moves to tuck himself against her; a position she’s become so acclimated to over the years that it’s become muscle memory, a routine, a home.
One of his hands falls against her stomach— a comforting weight— while he moves to lay on his side. His other hand finds purchase in her long hair, gently combing through her locks for a short time, paving the way for a sweet kiss.
She can feel how he lays his head against the top of hers, how he buries his nose against her scalp. She relaxes, listening to Delilah breathing, feeling how Anji’s heart beats against her shoulder.
“You two are cute,” the dancer whispers to the darkness. The words ruffle through Baiken’s hair. “You and Delilah. You’re good to her; it’s sweet.” With her eye closed, Baiken just quietly hums in response, quickly falling into his embrace, his warmth. “A good mother too, apparently.”
Her eye snaps open as she groans. “So you heard that load’a bull, didn’t you?” Anji laughs into her ear; her cheeks feel warm.
“Neither of you are very quiet,” he responds, still chuckling. “Don’t you at least feel a little flattered? It means she trusts you.”
“I ain’t anyone’s mother,” Baiken replies, “whether she trusts me or not.”
She can imagine Anji’s smug face, complete with his typical smirk. “You say that now,” he says, leaving his retort at that; he knows she catches his meaning. “Jokes aside, you take good care of her, and it’s what she needs.”
Baiken doesn’t really know what to say, though her chest roars with an unusual feeling at the thought of it all; at Delilah trusting her, at the notion that she would be able to provide what another person needs.
Another kiss weaves its way into her hair. “Get some rest, my dear. We can continue talking in the morning.”
Baiken doesn’t argue with that logic. She falls asleep in ten minutes, listening to the sounds of her odd little family breathing, and feeling the warmth that being around them brings.