Work Text:
The sunlight crept in through the curtains, casting long, golden streaks across the bedroom walls. It wasn’t harsh, just warm enough to gently coax him from sleep. Shishiba blinked slowly, his eyes adjusting as he took in the stillness of the room. The hum of the air purifier in the corner was the only sound, blending into the soft rhythm of his breathing.
He lay still for a moment, letting the weight of the day settle on him. Not the weight of duty or mission reports, but the quiet reminder that today, for once, was a day off. A rare pause between assignments, a brief calm before the frenzy storm brewing on the horizon: the upcoming Assassin Exhibition, a job already beginning to claw at the edges of his mind.
That was for another day, though. For now, he allowed himself the rare luxury of calm. Shifting slightly beneath the covers, he turned toward the other side of the bed and found the familiar traces of Osaragi. A few strands of dark hair clung to the silk pillowcase, trailing across the fabric like threads of shadow. Her side was empty now, cool to the touch, but her scent still lingered faintly in the sheets, that musky bath gel she always used. It wrapped around him like a quiet echo, grounding and oddly comforting. He sank into it without thinking, the contentment catching him off guard.
Of course, she was already out. Not in any ominous way, but just part of the routine by now. Osaragi would always wake at five a.m. sharp, no alarms needed, probably a holdover from her countryside upbringing. He could picture it rather clearly: her younger self rising with the sun, crossing creaky wooden floorboards to feed chickens or prep for another long day of farm chores.
These days, the farm boots had been swapped for running sneakers. Her mornings were spent jogging laps around the nearby park, gradually becoming acquainted with the regular dog walkers, or, more accurately, their dogs. He remembered her mentioning, with a rare glint of pride, that she preferred this park over the one near her old JAA-assigned housing. Something about the air, the quiet atmosphere, the trees, or maybe just the fact that his apartment was in a slightly nicer part of town.
Their apartment, at this point. He supposed that’s what it was. It had never been officially decided: no sit-down conversation, no clear line crossed. She just… never left.
It began after the fight with his ex-mentor, when she found him slumped in that tofu restaurant, his left hand wrapped in blood-soaked bandages where two fingers used to be. She didn’t say much, just rushed him straight to the JAA’s medical wing in Kyoto. The surgeries came and went, and eventually he was fitted with prosthetic fingers, such stiff, foreign things that didn’t quite feel like his.
It all felt like a fever dream now: the fight, the blood, the final swing of his hammer crashing down on the man who once raised him. The memories blurred at the edges, sharp and surreal. But one moment stayed clear, etched into his memory like an old scar.
He remembered waking up, half-conscious and drenched in sweat and anesthesia. The sterile ceiling lights stung his eyes, and the sharp scent of disinfectants filled his lungs, cold and stinging like winter in his chest. A figure hovered at the edge of his vision. Her fingers, pale, steady, were wrapped tightly around the bandaged wreck of his left hand. As if by sheer grip alone, she could hold together what had already been lost. And he, in return, clung to her presence as if she were the last thread of warmth anchoring him to that hospital bed.
He thought, just for a second, that he saw Nagumo too, standing by the door, all out of place in that sterile room, arms probably crossed, looking unusually serious. But the thought quickly drifted, too far and too faint to hold onto.
During those early days of bed rest, Osaragi couldn’t be at the hospital all the time. She and Nagumo, as his “close partners”, were shouldering extra weight, picking up jobs to keep things moving. Still, she was there, right after she had finished her missions. Sometimes she was alone, other times she would walk in with Nagumo in tow, dropping off food, files, or whatever excuse they had for checking in.
He was discharged soon enough. There was work to return to, missions piling up with no regard for missing fingers. He pushed through it, like always, and somewhere along the way, Osaragi’s hospital visits blurred into something else. She was there when he got home, and then the next day, and the next, until he realized he wasn’t alone anymore. Somehow, she had stayed through the phantom pain that tore him from sleep, the awkward relearning of how to grip his hammers, and the heavy silences thick with guilt, where the dark whispered names he didn’t want to remember.
Just like that, blurred into weeks, weeks into months. And now, here he was, lying in the bed they shared every day, with pieces of her life quietly intertwined with his. Their habits and routines had begun to overlap in a way that felt effortless, natural. He glanced at the nightstand on her side of the bed, where her things had long since staked a quiet claim: hair ties, bobby pins, her favorite lip balm, and the bottle of water he always filled the night before, just in case she woke up thirsty, or so she’d have something ready the moment she opened her eyes.
He let out a slow breath. Somehow, without planning it, this had become their normal.
Shishiba turned over and reached for his nightstand, the usual setup: his watch, his phone, and a book he was halfway through. He checked the time without thinking. Still early. Osaragi had mentioned she'd swing by her assigned housing to tend to her plants, so she probably wouldn’t be back for a while. With that in mind, he allowed himself another thirty minutes of lying there sheepishly, letting his mind rest for once.
No plans, no weapons, no missions. Just the stillness of a day off.
By the time the door to their apartment opened again, Shishiba had already finished his morning shower and was standing in the kitchen, pouring a glass of cold brew while waiting for the espresso machine to finish its cycle. He had memorized their coffee preferences by now: his own, a cold brew with a subtle citrus note; hers, a soy milk latte with a single shot of espresso and exactly two pumps of sugar syrup. She always took it iced, even on the coldest mornings, when the snow outside clung to their coats and numbed their fingers.
Shishiba watched as Osaragi slipped off her sneakers and lined them up neatly next to his loafers, the ones he always wore on casual days. In her hands was a paper bag, warm and slightly grease-stained, and it didn’t take long for the scent of fresh pork buns to fill the apartment. Breakfast was her duty, as usual, just like how coffee was his. They’d split the routine without ever really talking about it, the same way they split roles on a mission. No discussion, no overthinking, just action. No need for many words, and yet everything fell into place.
“A new place just opened near the train station, Mr. Shishiba. Two for one price!”
She couldn’t quite hide the excitement in her voice, and Shishiba felt something soften in him at the sound of it. He took a sip from his cup to mask the faint curl of a smile, figuring she must’ve bought at least three buns. One was never enough for the insatiable little gremlin trapped in that deceptively frail frame.
Still, he kept it simple and nodded toward the bathroom. “Take the shower first. And dry your hair properly this time.”
Osaragi finished with her washup and emerged from the changing room, technically the apartment’s second bedroom, converted into a walk-in closet to house Shishiba’s tailored coats, polished shoes, and expensive colognes. These days, the right side of the room belonged to her. Not all her things, though, as she still kept the best of her belongings at her assigned apartment, but enough to get by. Enough to make the space feel not entirely his anymore, enough of an excuse for him to occasionally pick up things for her during their strolls through shopping districts: mini-sized perfumes to test, a knitted cardigan for colder mornings, a burgundy cashmere scarf with her romanized initials stitched inside. Just in case she needed them. Just in case she stayed, as if she hadn't been staying for a few months now, only swinging by her place once or twice a week to tend to her plants.
She looked up to find her senior, more of a life partner now, lounging comfortably on the sofa, the remote in hand as he flipped through channels with absent focus before settling on an animal documentary. On the coffee table in front of him sat their breakfast: two pork buns for her, one for him, and neatly portioned cut-up fruit on each side. After their last checkup, both had been told to increase their vitamin C intake, and ever since then, Shishiba had quietly made it a habit to add kiwis to their meals, the only vitamin C-rich fruit she’d eat without complaint.
With practiced ease, she settled beside him on the sofa, picking up her plate and taking a small, satisfied bite of the pork bun. The meaty warmth spread through her like a quiet comfort. Shishiba followed suit, and the two of them ate in sync, letting the slow rhythm of a day off wrap around them. They didn’t speak much, just the hum of the TV filling the silence, but it was enough. For Osaragi, it was all she needed.
To be honest, part of her missed slow mornings like this. Work had been relentless lately: missions stacked back-to-back, briefings bleeding into action, barely time to breathe between it all. Most mornings, she would rush through her post-run shower, throw on her work attire, and meet Shishiba in the kitchen as he poured their coffee into to-go cups. Breakfast was usually convenience store onigiri, eaten half-awake during the drive.
So, yeah, she couldn’t quite name the feeling, but she’d been longing for this. The quiet comfort of seeing him there, lounging on the sofa with his coffee in hand, unhurried for once, not shaped by urgency or bloodshed. The soft floral blanket she’d bought on a whim, bright and clearly out of place amid the apartment’s cool, neutral tones, was draped across both their laps, tying them together in a kind of warmth that had nothing to do with heat. It didn’t match anything in the room, but somehow, it matched them perfectly.
As she continued nibbling at her breakfast, Osaragi found herself already looking forward to the home-cooked dinner later that day, quietly promised, not spoken, but understood. Shishiba had said nothing, but it was how their days off usually played out: a slow morning shared in peace, followed by him retreating to the study to finish off lingering paperwork, while she busied herself with light chores: unpacking the laundry from the JAA cleaning service, tending to the plants on their balcony, or tidying up their bedroom.
If nothing else needed doing, she’d settle into the armchair in his study, flipping through the manga magazines she’d borrowed from Nagumo. Sometimes she’d drift off mid-issue, lulled by the quiet rhythm of Shishiba typing or scribbling, and when she stirred awake, he’d already be beside her, crouched at her side with his fingers gently brushing through her hair, reminding her that it was time to go stock up on groceries again.
Osaragi finally broke the silence between bites. “Mr. Shishiba…” she murmured, gently nudging her head against his shoulder, their hair lightly tangling where they leaned. “Yesterday, you said you were craving crème brûlée.”
“I never said that,” he replied flatly, but he didn’t push her off either. Instead, he quietly finished his coffee and began scrolling through his phone, already searching for places along their supermarket route that might sell the dessert.
Osaragi leaned back with a quiet hum, satisfied. The taste of pork buns still lingered on her tongue, and the soft buzz of the television filled the room in place of conversation. The day would unfold slowly: errands, laughter in between silences, a home-cooked dinner, maybe crème brûlée if the stars aligned.
But for now, this was enough.