#his most recent scar is the stab through the ribs from Ashes | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

bubblesthemonsterartist · 7 years

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Take whatever AnS chapter has been released most recently and give it an Obiyuki tie-in/ending

She heard that he arrived sometime in the middle of thenight, alone, three days ago and had disappeared inside the fortress with onlya broad wave and a too large smile.

She heard that he was fine; that they had drawn thepoison from his veins and stitched his wounds with nary a problem.

She heard that he had returned to duties that very night,teetering along the highest parapets of the city walls, alone.

Shirayuki had spent the last two nights, squintingthrough the dark at the edges of the city, convinced that if she stared hardenough she could make out the line of his figure in the starlight. She hadspent the last two days visiting his office and the training yards, only to betold that she just missed him.

He hadn’t been taking meals in the dining hall.

He hadn’t checked in with the clinic.

His bed remained undisturbed.

Her lips twist.

It was enough.

Shirayuki pushes herself back from her workbench, herchair screeching against the stonework flooring and startling Ryuu from hisnotes. She smiles tensely at him, gathering her papers scattered across the tabletop and piling themat the corner of her desk.

“I’m off,” she says, holding herself with as much composure as she can muster.

It takes only a moment for blue eyes to relax intounderstanding. “Mm,” he nods, turning back to his station.

~ ~ ~

Heels click, the sound echoing off the wall and mingling with the sound of clashing metal and grunts of exertion as she passes classrooms and exercise halls. Guards smile in greeting as she passes them, dipping their heads with a polite, “Mistress Shirayuki.”

She smiles in reply, a loaded tea tray balanced between her hands, but she does not slow her gait until she reaches the third door from the end. Stopping for a moment, she gathers her thoughts and shifts her load onto one arm before knocking firmly on the heavy door.

It takes a few endless seconds before she hears a muffled acknowledgement and a few more before the door opens. Jirou’s face pinches when he lays his eyes upon her.

“I am sorry, Mistress Shirayuki. Sir Obi just left to evaluatethe archers. He won’t be back for some time.”

Hurt stabs at her gut but she smooths her face. “I know,” she says, understanding. Dishes clatter noisily as she pushes her way past him, setting her tray on his desk and taking a seat.

She can’t even bring herself to look at him when she says: “I need a favor.”

~ ~ ~

It’s late and cold when she ascends the city walls, the air filled with the sort of bite that makes the stars shine with surreal clarity against the sky. On nights like this, she thinks that ifshe were to extend her hand just a little further than she could reach, she might be able to feel their sharp edges prickling against her skin.

When she can climb no further, she is met with a burst of wind that cuts through her thickest coats and she shivers,hugging herself tightly with a frown. Walking along the the rampart, her eyes adjusting to the moonlight in her search, she pauses to stare down over the edge of a parapet into the inky darkness below. Her stomach turns and the wind howls, tearing at her hair before stilling again.

“I don’t recall appointing any new night sentries.”

Shirayuki’s eyes widen, spinning on her heels and feeling equal amounts of shock and relief. Despite the hurt at himavoiding her, despite her anger at him not seeking treatment, her harsheremotions unwind when her eyes lay on him for the first time in weeks. In thebright light of the moon, she can see the lines on his face, the exhaustion inhis posture. Every sentence, practiced and rehearsed in her brain, dissolvesinto ashes on her tongue.

Swallowing, she turns to look out across the tundra that laysbefore the South Gate.

“I’m just… enjoying the view,” she comments lightly, her voice shaking from the cold.

“Please go inside, Miss.”

He sounds so tired, so resigned. What happened? Shirayukisets her jaw, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye and drops all pretenses. She was never good at them anyway.

“Not without you.”

“I have the night shift,” he replies quietly.

She shakes her head. “Not anymore you don’t,” shecounters. “Makiri says if you don’t come off this wall with me, he’ll come andpush you off.”

His lips twitch, chin falling to his chest as he rubs theback of his neck. “He’d have to catch me first,” he laughs with a grimace.

Shirayuki doesn’t join him. “I doubt it would be hardwith that gash in your side.”

He stills, going tense, and keeps his head bowed.

“Obi,” she says, stepping towards him and extending hergloved hand outwards. “Please stop running. Let me take care of you.”

The weight of his hand sliding into hers feels like ahomecoming.

~ ~ ~

She has settled on a chair next to her bed, the burner inthe corner of the room glowing with heat as Obi tugs at his scarf.

“This is really unnecessary…” he begins.

“You haven’t been to the clinic and it needs to be cared for,” she replies softly. “Let me see.”

He sighs, stiffly removing his coat before reaching downto the hem of his shirt. His face winces as he pulls his shirt upwards and she comes to standing, silently offering him assistance. Bending at the hip to accommodate her, he releases the hem for her to take and she rolls the fabric up over his head, taking care not to jostle him any more than necessary. When he is free of it and the fabric rests warm in her hands, she averts her eyes, folding his shirt over the back of her chair and steadying herself.

When she turns back, she has to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from crying out. Mitsuhide had warned her in his letter, but nothing could prepare her for seeing it with her own eyes.

A long, deep gash scores the space from his ribs down to the vulnerable flesh of his stomach, crisscrossing the pale etchings of previous injuries. She swallows, letting out a slow controlled breath between clenched teeth before reaching out to him. Her fingers gently run along the side of the puckered flesh and bruised skin, and she tries to silence the way her brain informs her how this was too close, too deep, he could have died…

The professional in her is impressed, though. The stitches are impeccable, closed tight and neat and providing ample evidence that he submitted to being tended to– Even if that tending was provided under the threat of Kiki’s blade.

“You’ve been taking care of it,” she says. It is not a question. The wound is angry and red, but it is also clean and she sees no sign of infection.

He laughs softly. “I didn’t want to face your wrath, Miss.”

She smiles, pleased, her hands alighting on the unblemished skin of his side before looking up. Gold, warm and teasing, meets her gaze and she aches a little at the deep grooves of exhaustion lining his face.

“Sit,” she demands gently.

He frowns. “Miss, it really isn’t appropriate—”

She struggles to keep the disappointed frustration out of her tone. He gets like this every time hesees Zen. “You’ve lain in my bed countless times, Obi. This is nodifferent.”

His eyes avert from hers, but he lowers himself gingerly until his hands lay flat and still againsther sheets. Reaching out, she runs her fingers delicately along the side of his face. His shoulders drop, tension draining out of him and his eyes fluttering shut.

Her heart warms. Whatever he is feeling, she feels it, too.

“Take off your gloves,” she says, letting go of him and lowering herself to her knees. His breath hisses out of his nose, body tensing once more, but she keeps her gaze riveted to the lacings of his boots, plucking at the ties. She hazards only one glance up, her cheeks burning, and sees his face has gone slack, his eyes impossibly dark. She swallows her heart. “It would be difficult for you to take these off yourself,” she says, bracing one palm against the curve of his calve and pulling with the other.

He leans back to help her, lifting his feet so each boot peels away easily in turn. She pulls away his socks, too, before he has a mind to protest, keeping her touch clinical even though her fingers graze the thicket of scars that he goes to such lengths to keep hidden. When she finishes, she settles back on her haunches and looks up, only to have her heart stop completely.

Even with the injury crossing his torso, he looks… perfect, barefoot and shirtless before her, leaning back against her sheets. His gloves rest on her bedside table, and he pulls the Olin Maris stone from his pocket to rest it on top of them. Her heart flutters to life at the sight. It lit his way home, just like she had hoped. His naked hands come to rest against her blankets and a slow, curling heat circles the low of her belly. It had never occurred to her, not without the light of a candle, how startlingly intimate their nights shared together might be.

This may have been a bad idea.

When she meets his eyes, though, the hesitant question in his expression tells her that it is not.

She pushes herself to standing too quickly, her world swaying on its axis as blood rushes from her legs to her brain, but she reaches out, placing her arms on his bare shoulders and nudging him down.His eyes never leave hers and she doesn’t look away until his head is nestledagainst her pillow.

Turning, she leaves him, silently moving through her roomto extinguish candles one by one and draw curtains shut. There would be no light to wakehim at dawn if she had anything to say about it.

When there is nothing but the low glow of the charcoal and the gentle burn of the crystal to guide her way, she pads softly over to her bed. He is still staring at her and she can feel something inside her tremble at that. He could have died. He could have never come back to her. She might have never had a chance to see him like this again.

Carefully, she climbs into bed, crawling over him to wedge herself betweenthe wall and the uninjured side of his body. When she has settled herself in the crook of his arm, her hand resting lightly on his chest where she can feel the dull thumping of his heart against her palm, she allows herself the words she had been avoiding.

“Tell me,” she whispers into the dark.

He flinches, a distressed sound bubbling up under her fingertips. He swallows. “It doesn’t make for the best conversation.”

She curls in closer. “That may be so,” she replies, her hand stroking down his front, taking care to avoid his wound while she re-memorizes the texture of him. “But it’s not something that you need to carry alone.”

There’s a long pause and she watches his throat work, unsure if he is struggling to find the words or deciding whether or not to breach the dam. He tongue darts out, wetting his lips, and finally he speaks.

“They were like me, Miss,” he says, squeezing her hand. “Just a little slower.”

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