Chapter Text
Morning came quietly, the way it only ever did when the world was about to get loud again.
Tamsy woke before the alarms, before HQ stirred, staring at the ceiling he knew too well. The light creeping in through the blinds was familiar — not harsh, not kind — just there. Byakko slept beside him, turned slightly onto her side, one hand tucked under her chin, the other resting open between them like it had never learned how to be clenched. Her breathing was slow, even. Real. That alone grounded him more than any routine ever had.
Okay. So this is my life now. Don’t mess it up.
He shifted carefully, testing the mattress for protests, the way he always did. None came. She didn’t stir. He let himself look at her properly then — the relaxed mouth, the faint crease between her brows that never fully smoothed out, even in sleep. She looked fresher like this. Not fragile. Just… unarmored. It tugged something tight and protective in his chest, something he didn’t have a name for and didn’t particularly want one for either.
She trusts me like this. That’s terrifying, actually. Especially considering what I’ve done…
He sat up slowly, elbows resting on his knees, hands loosely clasped. The room felt different in the daylight — not softer, exactly, but settled. Lived‑in. Like it had accepted what it was now and wasn’t going to argue about it. He glanced once toward the missing wall, the open space where separation used to be, and felt that strange, steady click inside him again. Right. This wasn’t temporary. This wasn’t a pause.
No more exits. Just… forward.
Byakko shifted behind him, a quiet sound leaving her throat — not quite a sigh, not quite a word. He turned just in time to see her blink awake, eyes unfocused for half a second before landing on him. Her mouth curved immediately, unguarded, sleepy, real. No hesitation. No scanning the room. Just him. “Morning,” she murmured. “Hey,” he replied, voice low, easy — the version of himself that only existed here. She reached out without opening her eyes fully, fingers brushing his wrist, then curling there like it was instinct instead of choice. He didn’t pull away and let it happen.
This is the part I don’t know how to do. And somehow, I’m doing it anyway.
He leaned back toward her, resting his forehead briefly against hers, breathing her in — soap, fabric, something uniquely hers that he never bothered trying to define. Outside this room, he’d already be rebuilding the mask. The calm smile. The polite distance. The version of himself everyone trusted because it never asked for anything.
But here? Here, he let himself stay quiet. Just for another minute.
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The reception area looked exactly the same, which hit Byakko harder than she expected. Same lighting. Same faint hum beneath the floors. Same desk scuffed at the corner where someone had once dragged it instead of lifting. Semiu stood behind it with her usual posture — relaxed, unbothered — half‑hidden behind a magazine that was very much not work‑approved. The sight tugged a smile out of Byakko before she could stop it. Something in her chest loosened, light and immediate.
I’m really glad this didn’t change.
She lifted her hand in a small wave, steps slowing just enough to let the moment land. “Morning,” she said, bright and easy, voice carrying without effort. Semiu didn’t look up at first. Then she did — eyes flicking over the top of the page, sharpening as recognition clicked into place. Her gaze swept Byakko from head to toe, unhurried, thorough, and then her mouth curved. Tamsy stopped beside her, posture already shifting — shoulders straight, expression pleasant, composed, the careful smile he wore when the world was watching. “Well,” Semiu drawled, lowering the magazine just enough to look amused, “someone’s in a cheerful mood.” The words weren’t pointed. Just observant. Byakko laughed softly, the sound slipping out without nerves or second‑guessing. “Yeah,” she replied, nodding once. “I missed you guys.” The honesty came easily. She didn’t brace for it. “I’m happy to be back where I belong.” The sentence settled cleanly between them, not heavy, not dramatic — just true.
I get to say that out loud now.
Semiu studied her for half a second longer, something warm and knowing passing through her expression. Then she huffed, smiling to herself, and lifted the magazine back into place. “Mm,” she murmured, already disengaging. No commentary. No teasing follow‑up. Just quiet acceptance. Byakko felt the approval in the lack of fuss more than she would have in words. She turned to move on, steps light, shoulders relaxed.
This is mine. I don’t have to ‘earn’ it again.
As they walked away, she caught Tamsy’s reflection in the glass beside them — still wearing that calm, social mask, eyes forward, smile polite. She didn’t resent it. She didn’t need to crack it open. Instead, she reached out and brushed her fingers briefly against his wrist, a small, private touch that grounded her without slowing them down. His stride adjusted instantly to match hers, seamless and automatic. They headed toward breakfast together, the hum of HQ rising around them, and Byakko felt something rare and steady settle into place — not relief, not reassurance, but the quiet joy of knowing she didn’t have to hesitate anymore.
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The dining hall hit Tamsy like it always did — noise first, then motion, then the layered smell of food and smoke and too many people existing at once. Chairs scraped. Someone laughed too loud. Someone else argued across three tables. It was familiar in the way a bruise was familiar. He adjusted automatically, posture smoothing, expression settling into something neutral‑pleasant as they stepped inside. Byakko didn’t slow. She never did when she was excited. She drifted a half step ahead of him, eyes already tracking faces, energy bright and loose in a way that still caught him off guard.
She really is glowing. What the hell did I marry into.
Enjin’s voice cut through the room before Tamsy even saw him. Loud, lazy, carrying that particular confidence of a man who knew exactly how annoying he was being. He was leaning back in his chair, cigarette balanced between two fingers, Gris across from him mid‑rant — something about busted suspension and whose driving habits counted as “criminal negligence.” Smoke curled upward in lazy spirals. Enjin spotted them and grinned wide. “Heyyy,” he called, dragging the word out. “Look who survived domestic bliss.” Tamsy didn’t break stride. “We’re fine,” he replied, tone light, smile firmly in place. “Eat your food and stop poisoning the air.” It came out polite, almost friendly — the kind of response that shut doors without slamming them. Byakko laughed softly beside him and stepped closer to the table before he could angle them away. “We’re great,” she said easily, bright as ever. “Seriously.” Then, without hesitation, she tilted her head and asked, “Hey, Enjin — are you free today?” The words landed wrong immediately. Tamsy felt it in his shoulders first, a subtle tightening he didn’t allow to show.
…Why is she asking him that?
Enjin blinked, caught off guard for once. “Uh,” he said, smoke curling from his mouth as he frowned. “For what?” Byakko didn’t miss a beat. She planted her hands on the edge of the table, earnest and completely unashamed. “Training,” she said. “I want to get back into it properly. Stamina, strength, all of it.” She shrugged, casual. “I mean, I’m five feet tall and seventeen, like this height is criminal at this age. I know I’m kind of weak right now, and I don’t want to stay that way.”
Weak? No. No, don’t you dare say that about yourself.
Enjin leaned back, clearly considering it, eyes flicking over her with professional assessment. Tamsy stood just behind her shoulder, smile still fixed, jaw tight enough to ache. He was aware of everything at once — the way Enjin’s gaze lingered, the way Gris had gone quiet, the way Byakko hadn’t once looked back at him for approval. She doesn’t need permission. She knows that. I know that. Enjin’s eyes shifted. Just slightly. They caught Tamsy’s. The moment stretched. Enjin’s grin turned slow and knowing. He huffed a laugh. “Well,” he drawled, tapping ash into a tray, “you technically are under my team.” Tamsy didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just held the smile. Enjin’s gaze flicked back to Byakko, then returned to him. “But,” he added, amused, “I feel like someone over here might hate that idea.”
Busted.
Enjin chuckled, clearly enjoying himself now. “Tell you what,” he said. “Why don’t you focus on techniques today instead?” He jerked his chin toward Tamsy. “With him.” Byakko’s answer was immediate. “Sure!” No pause. No doubt. She turned, grabbed Tamsy’s hand, and started dragging him away from the table like the decision had never been in question.
Wait — what?
She was already talking as they walked, words tumbling out in excited bursts. “I’ve been thinking about it a lot,” she said. “Like, if I really commit — daily conditioning, better balance, muscle control — I could actually get good. Not just survive, but be solid, you know?” Her grip tightened, warm and sure. “I want to put the work in. All of it.” Tamsy let himself be pulled, steps matching hers automatically, expression still composed despite the static in his head.
She chose me. That fast. No hesitation. Behind them, Enjin laughed openly, satisfied. Tamsy didn’t look back right away. When he did, he threw him a glance over Byakko’s head — sharp, warning, still smiling. Enjin lifted his cigarette in a lazy salute. Gris snorted. The room swallowed the moment whole, noise surging back in around them.
You did that on purpose. I’m going to get you back for it.
Byakko finally slowed once they were clear of the tables, turning to face him with that open, expectant look that always knocked the breath out of his lungs. “You’re okay with that, right?” she asked, softer now — not unsure, just checking. Tamsy’s hand tightened around hers once. “Yeah,” he said evenly. “Of course.” And it was true. More than true. Responsibility settled into place where the jealousy had been, heavy and steady and grounding.
If she’s going to push herself, it’ll be with me. I’ll make sure she comes out stronger. She smiled, relieved, and leaned closer as they continued down the hall, already planning out drills and schedules aloud like it was the most natural thing in the world. Tamsy listened, nodding when appropriate, filing everything away. Instructor mode was already lining itself up in his head — structure, limits, control. Not to cage her. To protect what she was building. This isn’t about ownership. It’s about trust. They disappeared into the corridor together, hand in hand, leaving behind smoke, laughter, and one very smug Cleaner — and Tamsy realised, with a quiet jolt, that whatever this new chapter demanded of him, he was ready to meet it head‑on.
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The yard was cold in the way stone always was before it warmed to movement, the floor scuffed and cracked from years of impact. Byakko rolled her shoulders once, then twice, feeling the weight of her glass pen settle into her grip as the curved handle imprinted itself into her palm. Across from her, Tamsy stood already grounded, his distaff resting in his hands with practised ease, its heavy shape solid and uncompromising. The air between them felt tight, expectant, like it always did right before a fight began. He nodded once at her, serious now, all warmth folded away. She lifted her chin, steadying her breath. “Tsukikage,” she answered. He followed immediately. “Tokushin.” Their Jinkis pulsed faintly, gold and blue aura seeping out of them respectively, anima responding to acknowledgement, and the session began without ceremony.
She moved first, too fast, Tsukikage sweeping in a sharp crescent meant to test his guard. Tokushin met it head‑on with a brutal clang that rattled her arms and sent vibration screaming up through her wrists. She stumbled back half a step, teeth gritting as Tamsy advanced without hesitation, forcing her to keep moving. He didn’t waste strikes, didn’t show off — every swing of Tokushin was measured, heavy, demanding she answer properly or get crushed. “Again,” he said calmly, knocking her blade aside and stepping into her space. She adjusted, tried to pull more anima inward, to compress it, to force it into Tsukikage instead of letting it bleed through her body. The weapon brightened for a split second — then wavered.
Fuck. Why can’t I do it?
Her breath hitched as they clashed again, metal on metal, Tsukikage skidding dangerously close to losing cohesion. She could feel it — the anima swelling in her chest, hot and restless, refusing to settle where she wanted it. Every instinct screamed to let it out, to let it flood her limbs like it always did, but that was the problem. That was what kept breaking her, what made control slip through her fingers every time it mattered. Tamsy noticed immediately. He shifted angles, pressed harder, Tokushin forcing her into defence after defence. “Stop fighting it,” he snapped, voice cutting clean through the noise. “Contain it. Breathe.” She tried — oh, she tried — planting her feet, drawing in slow, deliberate breaths as Tsukikage trembled in her grasp. The clash that followed was messier, louder. Her blade met Tokushin wrong, the curve skidding instead of locking, and the recoil sent her sprawling onto one knee. Stone scraped painfully against her palm as she caught herself, Tsukikage flickering, unstable. Tamsy halted instantly, Tokushin lowering as he watched her with sharp, unreadable eyes. He didn’t rush to help, didn’t soften his stance — he waited. Byakko forced herself up, chest heaving, sweat already dampening her collar. “Again,” she said before he could speak, lifting Tsukikage even as it shuddered. The anima inside her surged in protest, burning under her skin.
Why won’t you listen to me? I’m trying to give you somewhere to go.
This time, the clash was brutal. Tokushin slammed down, Tsukikage screaming as she redirected the force, her arms shaking violently as she tried to keep the anima locked inside the blade instead of herself. For one heartbeat, it almost worked — the glow tightened, the weapon stabilised, her body blissfully empty. Then it snapped. The anima flooded back into her all at once, knocking the air from her lungs as Tsukikage dimmed and her knees buckled again. She stayed upright this time through sheer stubbornness, vision swimming, jaw clenched hard enough to ache. Tamsy was there in a second, not touching her, but close enough that she could feel the heat of him. “That’s enough,” he said quietly, not unkindly. She hated how relieved she felt when he said it. Hated how her hands shook as Tsukikage finally dissolved, leaving her lighter and heavier all at once. Training hadn’t fixed it — hadn’t solved anything — but something had shifted anyway. Tamsy watched her carefully, responsibility settling over him like armour as he helped her steady her breathing. She met his gaze, frustrated, exhausted, but still standing.
I’ll get it. Even if it takes everything. I’ll make it mine.
The yard slowly warmed around them, stone holding the echo of every failed clash, every attempt still hanging in the air — unfinished, but not abandoned.
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The recreational area had settled into its usual evening rhythm by the time they arrived, the sharp edge of the day dulled down into noise, warmth, and shared exhaustion. Lights hung low and yellow, catching on scratched tables and scuffed floors, and the air smelled faintly of cheap oil, sweat, and whatever someone had burned trying to cook earlier. Voices overlapped in loose clusters — laughter, arguing, someone complaining loudly about cards — the sound of people who knew each other well enough to be unguarded. Byakko felt it the moment she stepped inside, the way her shoulders loosened without permission, her pace slowing to match the room rather than cut through it. Tamsy stayed close at her side, not hovering, just there, like a familiar weight she didn’t need to check for. She caught sight of Tomme near one of the benches, legs tucked up under her, boots discarded, hair half‑pinned and half‑fallen as she scrolled through a battered screen.
“Oh, thank goodness,” Byakko said immediately, veering towards her. “You’re here. I was going to lose my mind if I had to listen to Gris argue about engine ratios for another minute.” Tomme looked up, grin spreading instantly. “You missed a real good one earlier. He nearly cried.” She scooted over without thinking, making space. Byakko dropped down beside her, knees knocking lightly, heat still radiating off her skin from training. Tamsy took up position just behind and to the side, leaning back against the bench as if resting, eyes half‑lidded. Anyone watching would have thought he’d checked out. Anyone who knew him would have clocked the way his attention never actually left the space around her.
They fell into conversation easily, the way people did when they didn’t need to fill silence on purpose. Tomme flicked her screen around, shoving it into Byakko’s line of sight. “Did you see the latest broadcast?” Byakko groaned. “Don’t start.” “I’m starting,” Tomme said, delighted. “Mymo was on again.” “That’s exactly why I said don’t start,” Byakko replied, scrunching her nose as she leaned closer despite herself. The reporter’s face was frozen mid‑expression, eyes sharp, mouth caught between a smirk and something more serious. “I don’t know how anyone listens to him without wanting to throw something. It’s the way he talks. Like he knows something you don’t and is enjoying it way too much.” Tomme giggled, shaking her head, “You’re being picky. That’s literally his thing.” “I know it’s his thing,” Byakko insisted. “That doesn’t mean I have to like it. He does that pause before he says anything important, like he’s waiting for the world to catch up to him. Just say it.” “That pause is intentional,” Tomme said, tapping the screen. “He’s not stupid. He’s controlling the room.” Byakko huffed. “I still don’t trust his tone. It feels smug.”
Why does she always sound like she’s already won? Tamsy shifted slightly behind them, crossing his arms, still silent. His eyes flicked briefly to the paused image, then back to Byakko’s face as she spoke, reading the way her expression sharpened when she was annoyed versus when she was actually upset. This was neither. This was comfortable complaining.
“He’s good at his job,” Tomme continued, unfazed. “You don’t get to be that visible without being sharp.” “Doesn’t mean he needs to enjoy it so much,” Byakko muttered, though her mouth was already tilting into a reluctant smile. “And don’t even get me started on his clothes. That jacket he wore today? It was trying too hard.” Tomme laughed outright, “Says the girl wearing half her husband’s wardrobe.” Byakko glanced down at herself, then back up, unapologetic. “That’s different. This is practical.” Tamsy giggled quietly before he could stop himself. Both of them looked at him. “What?” he said, lifting his hands slightly. “You’re not wrong. She does steal my clothes.” Byakko elbowed him without heat, smiling. “You let me.” “I absolutely do,” he replied, calm and easy. Tomme’s grin softened at the exchange, her gaze flicking between them before she turned the screen off and set it aside. “You’re different,” she said casually, not accusing, not prying. Just observant. Byakko blinked. “Different how?” “Happier,” Tomme said. “Louder. You argue more.” Byakko laughed, surprised by how true it felt. “I’ve always argued.” “Not like this,” Tomme said. “This is… comfortable.” Byakko leaned back on her hands, looking around the room — at Gris laughing too hard at something that clearly wasn’t that funny, at Enjin gesturing wildly as he talked, at people drifting in and out without ceremony. Tamsy shifted again, settling closer, shoulder brushing lightly against her arm.
I don’t feel like I’m borrowing this anymore.
“I think,” Byakko said slowly, “I just stopped worrying about whether I was allowed to take up space.” Tomme smiled at that, soft and knowing. “Good. About time.” They sat like that for a while, the conversation drifting — fashion turning into gossip, gossip turning into speculation about upcoming assignments, speculation dissolving into jokes. Byakko found herself laughing easily, talking with her hands, teasing without checking herself first. Tamsy listened more than he spoke, occasionally offering a dry comment that landed perfectly and then letting the moment pass. He didn’t interrupt her. He didn’t steer her. He simply existed alongside her, present without pressure. At one point, Byakko leaned back far enough that her head brushed his side. He didn’t move away. His hand settled briefly at her shoulder, grounding, then fell away again as if it had never been there.
I like that I don’t have to hold myself still here.
The night wore on gently. Someone put music on low. Someone else fell asleep where they sat. The room thinned out in ones and twos, no big goodbyes, no announcements. When Byakko finally stood, stretching, Tomme grabbed her wrist lightly. “Hey,” she said. “Welcome back.” Byakko smiled, genuine and unguarded. “Yeah. It’s good to be.”
Tamsy fell into step with her as they left, their shoulders brushing in sync with their stride. Behind them, the recreational area carried on, unchanged.
