Paint
one
She was an artist.
He liked that about her.
There was some kind of peace in the way there was always paint beneath her fingernails, her back constantly sore from days spent before an easel. Some quiet peace in the way that there was no danger of losing her to a mission and knowing that he was the only one that would be chasing after criminals in their relationship. And of course the guarantee that she, no matter how long his day had been, had some story of ruckus within city walls that would pull his thoughts away from the cuts and bruises all over his body. He had tried to put it into words, once, exactly what she did to him, but couldn’t find the right way to put it. She made him whole when he had been torn apart, even if it was with just band-aids and ice packs—but she ripped him apart, too, with those eyes and that damn smile.
Because just as much as he loved her, he hated her. The stupid paintings that littered their apartment and took up space, the way that she devoted so much of her time to things that she rarely ever finished, the way she smiled at him whenever he was angry and ran her fingers through his hair. That stupid noise she made every time she woke up and saw that he was just leaving, a cross between a moan of frustration and a whine of sadness. And the paint that got everywhere…his hair, her hair, the sheets of their bed. The way that, when he came home, she was always there, paint freckled across the bridge of her nose and her hair a mess piled on the top of her head and how she complained of early aging, a crick in her back that never went away.
She had her complaints, too, though she never voiced them.
He was a shinobi.
That was something to dislike in itself.
He liked that about her.
There was some kind of peace in the way there was always paint beneath her fingernails, her back constantly sore from days spent before an easel. Some quiet peace in the way that there was no danger of losing her to a mission and knowing that he was the only one that would be chasing after criminals in their relationship. And of course the guarantee that she, no matter how long his day had been, had some story of ruckus within city walls that would pull his thoughts away from the cuts and bruises all over his body. He had tried to put it into words, once, exactly what she did to him, but couldn’t find the right way to put it. She made him whole when he had been torn apart, even if it was with just band-aids and ice packs—but she ripped him apart, too, with those eyes and that damn smile.
Because just as much as he loved her, he hated her. The stupid paintings that littered their apartment and took up space, the way that she devoted so much of her time to things that she rarely ever finished, the way she smiled at him whenever he was angry and ran her fingers through his hair. That stupid noise she made every time she woke up and saw that he was just leaving, a cross between a moan of frustration and a whine of sadness. And the paint that got everywhere…his hair, her hair, the sheets of their bed. The way that, when he came home, she was always there, paint freckled across the bridge of her nose and her hair a mess piled on the top of her head and how she complained of early aging, a crick in her back that never went away.
She had her complaints, too, though she never voiced them.
He was a shinobi.
That was something to dislike in itself.