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There was a saying about the feeling of dirt under your fingernails and how it was a sign of a job well done.
Genos no longer had fingernails, so to speak, but he did understand the idea around it as he knelt in the dirt, metal knees sinking a bit as he gently checked over the roses for spots in need of pruning. Saitama had been resistant to the idea of such delicate flowers originally making him frown and mention how much effort it took to keep them alive. But Genos had insisted, enjoying the dramatic sweep of their blood red petals against his metal fingers and, as usual, his Master had given in with very little prompting.
Said Master was across the small stone path, small shovel in hand as he carefully dug up weeds, keeping them away from the vegetables. That had been a financial choice and, Genos had to admit, the tomatoes really did taste better than the ones from the supermarket. Saitama tended to the veggie patch the most often and Genos paused to watch him for a moment.
His master had chosen to wear the hat Genos had gotten him, the straw brim keeping the sun off his face and keeping him cool. The cyborg smiled as the villain hummed off tune under his breath, hands scooping the ragweed and mugwort away with careful movements. It was strange, actually, how at peace the bald man was when working with his hands, how content he seemed to be, how gentle his master really was.
It had been one of the most surprising things Genos had learned about Saitama. That the most powerful man in the world had enough restraint to keep from bruising a tomato with a touch.
Genos turned back to the roses, deeming them healthy and tying their stems to their supports to keep the heavy blooms from drooping too much before standing and padding over to his lover. Saitama seemed so wrapped up in the process of weeding that he barely noticed when Genos’ hands slid over his shoulders, down to his arms and around his hands.
“Hmm? Something wrong, Roomba?” Saitama asked, tilting his head a little, looking into his lover’s silver eyes curiously.
Genos turned Saitama’s hands over in his own, looking at the streaks of brown and green, the way the dirt clung to the skin under his lover’s lightly bitten fingernails. Saitama really had been meaning to stop doing that, but when nail clippers can’t get rid of the broken edges well, a man had to resort to other habits. His master really had been working hard this morning, hadn’t he?
He barely noticed when Saitama reached over to a closer patch of wildflowers, the bright blues and purples more appealing to the villain than the violent bloody reds and broken-bone yellows of their roses. Genos let his eyes fall shut as his lover slid one behind his ear and cupped his hand over his cheek.
“Let’s get some lemonade, Master.”