Chapter Text
"If this little brat won't shut up I will electrocute her with my own hands!" Genichiro snarls. His eyes are bloodshot and flooded with tangible fury.
They were forced to shelter under the pressure of the Interior troops being hot on their heels, when they found an abandoned shack in the middle of the forest. The inside was a small, narrow room filled up with junk, which hindered their moves and aggravated Genichiro even more.
It wasn't long until a strange noise surprised them. It had come from the shack, from beneath the pile of rubbish stacked in there. Genichiro had no patience to show even when Wolf made it clear with an eye roll that he was gathering the impossible to keep it cool. They didn't want the enemy to be lured into their hideout, but then, the noise sounded extremely unusual. In the end, after removing a good chunk of rubble, what they believed to be a whimpering animal ended up being something else entirely.
"A baby!?"
Genichiro blinked at the bundle of limbs on the floor. It was a little girl, no more than six months old. When he picked her up carefully, his large hands swallowed the newborn whole like they were holding a squeaky toy.
"Ew... mucky little thing."
There was no doubt the baby had been abandoned, but despite the circumstances and the dirt plastered on the baby's skin, at first glance she seemed to be in good health. Round and soft enough, though some color on her face was missing.
Now, Genichiro was gathering his willpower not to crush the screaming little monster like a cockroach.
"Shinobi... please, just kill it, before it draws attention." He mutters, worn out by the stress and fatigue. The furrow in Wolf's brow deepens as his gaze wanders between Genichiro and the baby with concern.
After a while, he makes the first move, and retrieves the baby from Genichiro's trembling grip, scooping her up in his arms.
"Shhhh, it's alright. Are you hungry? I can hear your stomach rumbling." Wolf's voice never sounded so gentle, thoroughly crafted to appeal the necessities of a defenseless child.
Genichiro's jaw goes slack.
He wonders if it's a miracle's doing when the little girl's cries are lulled by the gentle rocking of Wolf's arms. His right hand cups the baby's scapula and neck while he keeps his prosthesis secured on her rear. Little fingers hook into the creases of the shinobi's scarf like it's the most reliable source of comfort she's had in a long while.
Wolf sits down with his back leaning against the wall. The baby lets out an unsettling groan, but Wolf makes sure she doesn't have to shift too much from her position. "Lord Genichiro, please may you pass me my pouch?" Wolf requests, his voice low enough to almost go unnoticed. Genichiro forces himself to wake up from his stupefaction, grabbing one of the wider pouches and coming to sit beside Wolf. The shinobi thanks him.
The bag is stacked with persimmons. Some ended up crushed while some dried off, and it takes a little while for Wolf to retrieve a full, shimmering orange one. An appetizing scent reaches Genichiro's nostrils. Despite not being particularly hungry, his stomach can't help but whine at the ripe smell, instantly wishing he could have a taste.
Genichiro peels the fruit with a pocket knife, his skillful slices baring a perfect lushious pulp, the juice of which is dripping from his fingers. He holds on to the urge to lick it off, the desire alone abashing him.
Eventually, he offers Wolf the persimmon. When he meets his eyes, Genichiro is unsure about the inkling of a smile in those pursed lips, but then, the shinobi nods in gratitude. The wrinkles on his scarred face have indeed softened, an unrecognizable, positive vision in a world which yields nothing but wrongness. With that, Genichiro's soul feels briefly restored, his aggravaton appeased.
The prosthetic fingers squish the persimmon dry until they wring out the liquid almost effortlessly. The girl laps eagerly at the fruit, making a mess of her chin, neck and chest. Not even Wolf's clothes are saved, though if the shinobi is bothered by such impropierty, he does well with hiding it.
They are men of war, and their knowledge on newborns should be far from proper. And yet...
"Who taught you to care for a baby, shinobi?" Genichiro asks him, clearing his throat so that his awe sounds less apparent.
In the quietness of the room, Wolf ponders. He cannot deny the warmth that spread in his chest as soon as the baby's hands had clung onto him, a pleasant fluttering that had almost been neglected for so many years, like an echo of the humanity that kept hidden within his most scarred nooks; the reminder of a heart still beating without the murky chains of wickedness.
When the little girl makes a satisfied noise, Wolf wonders if it's the most happiness he will feel in what seems like eternity.
"I was assigned by my father as lord Kuro's loyal protector when he was still very little. He was left orphaned at a young age. You could say I almost raised him myself." He explains. The mollified tone in his voice doesn't go overlooked. When the baby finishes her meal, Wolf places the squelched fruit upon Genichiro's hand, then gives a gentle pat on the baby's back with his fingers. "There, there... that was good, wasn't it?"
The pit of Genichiro's stomach churns in a wave of pity. He doesn't want to inquire further into the naked, tangible longing engraved in those brown eyes, for he fears he might end up finding something of unstoppable forces, which would call his own motives into question. Instead, he settles for a neutral stance. As the baby's fingers clasp into the old fabric of Wolf's scarf and settles for sleep, Genichiro forces down the lump in his throat when the shinobi pulls his haori over to wrap around the vulnerable little body in an attempt to protect it from the cold. The back of Genichiro's mind decides she will definitely need some cleaning, eventually.
"Not in a thousand years I expected to be in this situation. But I must admit, shinobi, babies do suit you."
The corner of Wolf's mouth curls up ever so slightly. But what Genichiro treasures the most, are the genuine patches of crimson dusting his cheekbones.