Chapter Text
She had heard it all before. World domination, erasure of humanity, scourge of the earth – blah blah blah. Saitama felt her eye twitch, impatience tensing her shoulders.
The monster was easily the size of three of her apartment buildings stacked vertically, and just as grey and blocky.
What did he say he was? Infrastructure-man? Born of housing inequality and urban expansion? Eh, the various details escaped her.
“Oi, we done here? I have places to be,” she interrupted, and the monster, towering over her and looking as affronted as an anthropomorphised skyscraper could, bellowed an incensed screech that shook the very foundations of the surrounding buildings.
“You dare? Rampant, poorly managed growth in these cities has bred poverty and overcrowding! I was born to level these cities and start anew, and I will crush all who stand in my way -”
She had heard enough.
Saitama threw a sole punch straight at the base of the monster, her fist shattering concrete and glass, fissures erupting up from the bottom and exploding in a hail of debris. She stared with her usual blankness as the monster broke apart, chunks of stone crashing into nearby structures. An absent part of her was glad that they were currently in Z-City’s abandoned zone so no one could blame her for the property damage again.
As the debris settled, everything fell silent.
Another fight finished in one punch.
Saitama sighed, pivoting on her heel striding away through the rubble. Unbidden, unfulfillment expanded her chest to fill every corner of her, its edges miserable and barbed, until the usual curtain of boredom fell seconds later and veiled the feeling.
She was used to it by now. Well, almost. A quiet part of her still pined hugely for the fight, but as the months ensued the easier it was to silence it. At least now, she had other things to live for that were not just a quest to find her equal. Some days were harder than others, but they felt like they held more colour than they once did. More life.
As she loped away from the fallen monster, Saitama looked down at herself; rather than the usual spray of blood and gore, she was coated in a fine dust, her usually vibrant red gloves and yellow catsuit muted and grey. As she navigated potholes and burst pipes, she tugged her cape over her forearm and it was much the same as the rest of her; almost black with soot.
She knew without a doubt that Genos would be frantic as soon as he saw her costume.
After ten minutes, she rounded a corner in the abandoned zone, her apartment building coming into view. The monster had been a mere five blocks away; she was glad to have taken it out before it came anywhere near her complex.
Genos was leaning over the half wall of their balcony, his luminous eyes gazing down at her as she passed below. She threw a mildly enthusiastic thumbs up at him and saw him look critically at her, his stare piercing as he was no doubt deciding how best to scrub the soot stains out of her cape.
By the time she made it to the front door, Genos was there to open it for her, looking as groomed as he always did, pink apron secured around his waist in a perfect bow. He was on her immediately, unclasping the cape from her shoulders and glaring at it as if he wanted to set it alight.
Saitama grumbled as Genos gestured for her gloves, her overbearing disciple as intense as ever as he grasped her wrist and pulled one off when she was not stripping quite fast enough for his liking.
“Genos, chill.”
“Sensei, you should have allowed me to deal with the monster, I’m not sure I’ll get the stains out of your costume -”
“Dude, that thing was a literal skyscraper. Literally. You would have come out looking worse for wear too,” Saitama huffed, removing her other glove and handing it to Genos, then bending to take her boots off, hopping on one foot to grasp at her heel.
“I do not doubt your skill, Sensei! I only say so because such a monster was beneath you, and not worth ruining your clothes for...” Genos pouted, reaching out to steady Saitama at the elbow as she wobbled, her knee-high red boot slipping off with one last pull. She took advantage of the leverage and quickly divested her second boot, dropping both carelessly into the genkan and padding away on socked feet into the living area.
“Well, you got the last one. So, fair is fair and all,” Saitama mumbled, spotting her favourite nightshirt folded into a precise square on the low table. She turned back to Genos, who was busy juggling her clothes just outside the genkan, looking at the bundle ferociously.
“Thanks Genos, I’m gonna get changed,” Saitama gestured at the folded nightshirt, sparing him a small smile. She turned away and pulled down the zip at her neckline, tugging at the catsuit until it slid down her shoulders and she freed her arms. Just before the costume slid down her chest, a noise that was stuck somewhere between a gasp and a cough came from back by the genkan, and she abruptly turned.
Genos was standing ramrod straight, one metal hand clutching her things and the other covering his eyes, steam pouring from his shoulders.
Oh, she forgot how he got when she changed lately…
“Sensei!” Genos squeaked indignantly, and she didn’t even know cyborgs could squeak, but he certainly managed it.
“Yeah yeah – going to the bathroom,” Saitama rolled her eyes, scooping her shirt up and shaking it out before heading back up the hall. She passed Genos as he peeked from behind his fingers, the piercing gold of a single eye following her intently until she finally slipped into the bathroom and shut the door.
Avoiding the mirror, she stripped down, before belatedly noticing that she needed a bath; she looked down her body, swiping a finger through the rogue dust coating her stomach.
How did it even get down there?
Ten minutes later and with her yellow suit deposited outside the bathroom door, Saitama eased herself into hot water, hot enough to scald an ordinary person but exactly right for her. She sighed, briefly dunking herself under to scrub her bald head and face, before surfacing with a splash and settling back against the lip of the tub.
She listened to the sounds Genos was making down the hall, the vague metal clicks of his arms and the tap of his metal feet reaching her as he moved around the kitchen, probably trying to scrub the worst of the stains from her costume at the sink. She could just about make out a frustrated huff and muttered curse as he worked, and allowed herself a small smirk.
Saitama and Genos’s relationship was… complicated.
They had been living together at her apartment for almost a year now and things had been going well, despite the perpetual malaise of her own apathy. She had made friends, and Genos had become a permanent fixture of her day-to-day life. Despite finding him vaguely annoying at first, she was glad she had taken him on a disciple the day she agreed to join the Hero Association all that time ago; now he was here, she didn’t know what life would be like without him, and found she didn’t want to know.
He was her first fan and her first friend.
But things had been strange lately. Genos had come back from a visit to his doctor a month ago, sporting new arms and a barrage of upgrades. He had explained them at length to Saitama, but somewhere between explaining the logistics of his newest incinerator specs and upgraded CPU implant, she had lost track of the conversation. He didn’t seem offended when she surfaced from the fog to him sitting in seiza and gazing at her intensely, although he had seemed a little anxious. When she had asked what was wrong, he had stared at her for an infinitesimal amount of time before looking away and assuring her he was fine.
So that was that.
However, as the days went on, Saitama noticed that his behaviour was… different.
Where he previously might have been indifferent or slightly exasperated when she stripped down in the middle of the living room, now he stuttered and gawped, his embarrassment starkly evident on his face. Before, he might have handled her underwear without so much as a blink, but now when he gathered her bras from the bathroom floor he steamed, holding them as if they were acidic. Previously, the sight of her slipping into the futon next to his in her clingy nightclothes prompted nothing but a small smile, but now he dimmed his eyes and cleared his throat, his posture stiff –
If Saitama had the capacity to feel offended, she would have. But as it was, she felt little in the way of shame when it came to her body, unless someone made comments about her bald head.
Had Genos had his eyes upgraded and found he could not bear the sight of her anymore?
She wasn’t sure, but what she was sure about was Genos suddenly could not look at her if she was anywhere near unclothed. It was vaguely annoying in a way any emotion was vague to her; fleeting and easily forgotten, but it did not stop her thinking on it in quieter moments when nothing else was distracting her.
Slipping down into the hot water so her knees protruded above the surface, Saitama contemplated the ceiling, her mind already sliding into that usual dense fog. The more mental energy she spared on the topic of her disciple, the more exhausted she became.
As she blindly reached behind her for a loofah, she began to contemplate what Genos might make for dinner, thoughts of his increasingly odd behaviour towards her left in a quiet corner of her mind.
When Saitama made it back to the living area, Genos was out on their balcony, hanging her hero costume strategically on their short washing line to catch the last of the daylight.
In a way she would have never done before, she pulled the hem of her nightshirt further down her thighs as she sat on their stacked futons, in a move that she told herself would make things a bit less awkward should Genos have a weird reaction to her bare legs.
Genos strode back in, leaving the balcony door open a crack to let the late summer air into the apartment. He glanced at her and began to speak, but cut himself off with an awkward sounding hum as his eyes did a full sweep of her appearance.
There it was again. Eyes locked on her, showing fascination where the seam of her shirt met her thighs. Vapour started steaming faintly from his arms, his posture screaming his discomposure.
…and really, Saitama was a bit annoyed at this whole thing.
It must have shown on her face this time because Genos furrowed his perfect brows in concern, looking away and worrying his lip. He cleared his throat, looking somewhere to the right of her nose as he tried for eye contact.
Saitama sighed, looking away and fishing around underneath herself for the TV remote.
“What would you like for dinner, Sensei?” Genos said, having gathered himself. He was already making his way to the kitchen, his wide shoulders slightly hunched in discomfort, but he sounded apologetic. He looked beseechingly through the hatch at her once he got there.
“Eh, I don’t mind, I’m easy,” the TV had already distracted Saitama, rapt on a report about the damage caused by the Deep Sea King she defeated in J-City all those months ago. Must be a slow news day.
“How about unadon? We have unagi over left from the sale…” Genos tapered off, pulling out pans and spices. He glanced at her again, and she felt his stare like a touch on the side of her face. Saitama rubbed her cheek, gazing over at her disciple neutrally. He seemed slightly desperate, looking away to rifle through their fridge.
“Sure thing Genos. Thanks man.”
The clattering stopped, and Genos quickly turned back in her direction. She raised a brow at his slightly erratic behaviour; he was usually a bit full-on, but this was something different.
“Sensei never has to thank me – I’ll gladly cook for you every day, for as long as you let me,” he said, sounding painfully sincere. They stared at one another, soft brown on piercing amber, Saitama feeling a rare squirm of embarrassment burrow into her sternum.
“Dude, don’t make it weird…”
“I apologise Sensei, I didn’t mean to -”
“Genos -”
“Sensei -”
“Genos! Chill. I am thankful and I don’t say it enough. Leave it at that, kay?” Saitama held Genos’s gaze, her ears feeling suspiciously warm. Genos’s eyes dimmed momentarily, something he did when he was thinking particularly hard about something, gripping a plastic wrapped pack of unagi with his housework arms.
His irises came back, luminous as they beheld her.
“It is my pleasure, Sensei. Would you like the unagi grilled with tare?”
“Sure, sounds great.” Saitama looked away, the news still running redundant reports on historical monster attacks, and heard what she thought was could have been Genos sighing. She did not turn to check, shuffling down into the futon and getting comfortable.
She had a brief thought that she might have to talk to him about what was going on soon, and it was not a thought she cherished; she was crap with these emotional things.
It was gone 11pm by the time Saitama pulled their futons out to sleep; they had spent the evening glued to King’s PS Vita, Genos trying to help Saitama defeat a boss she had been stuck on for a week. Genos had little interest in gaming, but he was a good strategist and even better at retaining information about how the game worked; King had told Saitama how to play the game probably a dozen times, but she was useless at remembering anything he said. That was where Genos was an asset to have looking over her shoulder and reminding her what to do.
What Saitama lacked in knowledge she made up in enthusiasm, though. On three separate occasions Genos had to remind her to be gentler with King’s console, or they would be buying him a replacement.
She had hastily lightened her grip each time. The thought of sinking that much money on a new device was so galling she had almost felt sick.
Genos was in their kitchen brewing a camomile tea. He seemed to be calmer, and had made an obvious effort to minimise his reaction to her bare legs; she could tell, because there was condensation on their windows from where he had been venting steam, repressing overt emotions from showing on his face.
That was something she had surprised herself by noticing, given that she was usually so apathetic that she was tone deaf. The steam vents on his arms were linked to his emotions, which was pretty inconvenient in the height of summer; Genos having an emotional moment when it was thirty plus outside was something she did not enjoy but had begrudgingly learned to live with.
Genos left the kitchen, clutching the small mug of fragrant tea. She rose from her crouch where she had been laying out their blankets, accepting the tea with a nod and a small smile. Genos knew she liked a herbal tea before bed, even if it did absolutely nothing for her anymore.
“Thanks Genos,” she murmured, taking a sip and humming contentedly. His eyes dimmed again, the second time that evening, and he inclined his head.
“No problem at all Sensei…” he tapered off, and Saitama watched in fascination as his eyes came back to life and he returned her smile. Just as quickly, he turned from her and strode toward their bathroom without a second glance.
She shrugged, taking herself and her tea to her futon, pushing the blankets down but not yet getting under them. She cradled the cup between her palms, staring into the golden liquid and taking a rare moment to think.
Saitama could bring it up now. She could ask what changed, if it had anything to do with Genos’s new upgrades, if he was suddenly uncomfortable around her… but the emotional labour involved would be painful. She redundantly blew the surface of her tea before taking another sip; today’s problems could wait until tomorrow.
She drained her tea, and minutes ticked by before the light from the bathroom turned off, Genos starting down the hall. He looked back to normal, a pair of sweatpants snug on his hips and his metal chest exposed. He stopped at the light switch to the living room, turning to Saitama and giving her everything a sweep with his eyes. It was brief, but it left Saitama feeling weirdly undone, exposed like a sparking livewire.
It was not a feeling which she was used to.
“Are you ready for bed, Sensei?” Genos asked, hand hovering at the switch. She nodded absently, and he inclined his head back, decisively clicking the light off. She knew he had some sort of night vision, so he navigated their small space with ease, finding his futon and sitting down with a soft thump.
Saitama knew Genos was staring at her again. She could feel it, like a brand, so she turned to him. They were both sat up in bed, and it was dark save the liminal glow of the moon suffusing the room through a gap in their curtains. His night vision irises were dimmed in comparison to their usual amber hued gold, but she could make them out like celestial objects suspended in black sclera –
Maybe now would be a good time to bring it up. He was making her feel weird.
“Genos?” Her voice seemed loud in the quiet of the space. Genos seemed to perk up, his irises brightening a little.
“Yes Sensei?”
“Have you – uh, has anything been, you know… bothering you?” Saitama mumbled, turning to Genos and unfurling her crossed legs as she did.
“…Sensei?”
“Um. You’ve been – well, different? Eh, its hard to explain...” already she felt like this whole thing was too complicated, too much to contend with. The fog already threatened to descend to take her away from this emotionally charged interaction, and she felt her face smooth into blankness.
Genos was silent for a while. He looked like he knew exactly what she was asking, even with it being butchered by her reluctance to speak in full sentences. She silently lamented being the emotionally constipated one of the two; she always felt two steps behind.
He looked like he was carefully considering his words, weighing his options. He rotated around to face her properly, and it brought him a breadth away from her blank face.
“Thank you for thinking about me and asking after my welfare. I could not ask for a better Sensei – you are truly unrivalled, the greatest woman, no, person, I have ever met, I –”
“Genos, can we not? I told you to stop making it weird,” Saitama interrupted, feeling that benign, muted embarrassment unfurl up her spine again – she did not know whether she preferred the apathy or this entirely new emotion, but she erred on the side of apathy in that moment.
“Of course. I can assure you that I am perfectly alright,” Genos said, and she could feel his breath on her face. Those penetrating eyes travelled down her body once more, lingering on her exposed thighs, her skin luminescent in the moonlight, and that muted feeling turned in a brief, frightening ache –
She did not know what look she had on her face, but Genos’s eyes faded to black once more, and she heard a creak of metal, the sound of something being clenched –
“We should sleep. Should I wake you in the morning?” Genos finally asked, and eyes were still blank; he had turned away from her, much needed inches of space making Saitama feel like she could breathe again.
What the hell was wrong with her?
“Sure, thanks Genos,” Saitama said, her voice soft in a way she had not known it to be in years. She cleared her throat, burrowing down into the covers, pulling them up high to hide the redness she could feel heating her ears.
“Goodnight Sensei. Sleep well,” Genos spoke lowly, settling down into his own covers, his back to her.
“Night,” Saitama mumbled, and stared at her disciple’s broad back, the metal catching and diffracting a beam of weak moonlight.
As sleep caught up with her, Saitama took the time to stare at Genos. The sounds of his mechanical body, the whir of his core, the sound of quiet breaths – she came to realise that recently she always slept easier when those noises coalesced into one soothing note. A note of company, of not being alone. Of friendship.
The nights when she was alone, when Genos was away for repairs or for S-Class business, grey, heavy apathy clung like a wetness she could not dispel.
Genos had become synonymous with the comfort of home, and while every day was still a battle through tar-like despondency, the changes he had brought mattered to her.
… and with that life-upending thought, Saitama fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.