cinders and smoke

RONIN if there's one thing i'm good at, it's surviving "I suppose I would have to agree with you there - that was the day some ruffian stabbed me, I believe," Ronin said; it was not the sort of thing that generally merited amusement, but the hunter honestly looked back on those memories with fondness. His thumb grazed across Remi's unshaven cheek; while his partner's smile faded, Ronin's remained, genuine and quietly confident. "Not handled, not a paperweight," he said warmly. "Ruined, not fixable - as long as you can talk to me about it, Remi, I'll never feel like I'm just towing you along. Okay?" Even if the words didn't come out right at first; even if they had to talk into the wee hours. As long as his husband was trying to communicate that meant there was still something there. And it slipped out in those brief expressions of joy, in the roughness in his voice, in the way he clutched his hand; each one a reward that Ronin had not been expecting. His forehead resting against Remi's, the simple warmth and affection in the gesture was enough to bring a stupid smile to his lips, one that his husband likely wouldn't see. "Let's go back to the wagon?" he asked; suddenly this beach reminded him much too much of the first day of their arrival.