Hello, and welcome to my first little story! Obi x Shirayuki is my foreverTP, and it hurts, but I love it. Obi is my favorite character in just about anything ever. This is a drabble I started a year ago and finished to gear up for stuff I'm doing in the future, including a longish story I've made my NaNoWriMo project for this month. ;) It's just supposed to be a warm, peaceful little thing, so please enjoy!

Smoke and Sunshine

To be honest, he'd fully expected to never be with her again after the Tanbarun incident. How could he be allowed to stand with her after failing her so miserably?

But that night in the forest had not been the ultimatum, had not included the sealing words of a means to an end that he had expected. Instead, he'd returned to Clariness with the memory of her smile and a steadily-burning heat in his gut that was fueled by her name caught fast between his teeth and the image of her flying softly across a ballroom floor, feathers and vapor and air tinted sun-colored yellow carrying her in sweeping circles, back and forth across his heart.

He'd expected her to never be able to meet his eyes again.

Words, therefore, do not exist that could describe what he felt when they crossed paths outside the greenhouses the day after (she always did seem to sneak up on him) and she greeted him with his name and a laugh - she was stuck outside the front door of one of the buildings, unable to open it due to the enormous twin sacks of soil she carried in both her hands.

Quiet breeze and whispered sunshine held its breath as his feet rocked on a brink, hesitating, before they steadily traversed grass and soil and a nameless, murmuring fear - a great chasm indeed - to reach her, and perhaps she understood, because her bright smile and her unsure eyes blended together to watch him steadfastly, reflected the rickety trapeze on which they swung, the balance that was slowly bending to accommodate the two of them. Challenging him toward her, step by step. And he took one of the heavy sacks from her and opened the door, following her inside.

The days were long and bright after that, like he'd never known they could be. They were full of herbal scents awash with the smell of the sea that drifted through the open greenhouse windows, shafted invisibly through with floating pleats of sunshine that spilled over sparkles of dust and wrinkled papers and leaves and cloudy beakers, teasing stripes of orange into apple-red locks of hair. The guards joked about what in the world could have happened to Obi that buildings full of flowers and books of all things could have become his one true haunt. But it was too intricate a thing for him to put into words, and so he would laugh along with them, not nearly as sincerely as he ever did with her every day, interspersed with long talks and equally long, peaceful silences as she bent over plants and pages and he reclined against old wooden tables and sat cross-legged on the edges of plots, snoozing or weighing seeds or trimming bushes with his out-of-place dagger (a constant reminder of his true purpose). It was almost as if their old lives had been waiting for their return the whole time while they'd been across the border, dancing with kings and fighting with pirates.

But he felt the changes on his fingertips, teasing his synapses, flooding him with one part trepidation and one part hope.

He gradually began to stay with her longer. He'd spend his mornings sparring with Mitsuhide and the other guards, exploring the town, sneaking into his master's quarters and scaring the living daylights out of him whenever he walked in to find it already occupied, and would find his orders to always be the same - watch over Shirayuki. And follow his orders he would, as thoroughly as he dared, until the sun set and the Little Miss was taking notes and chopping roots by lantern light and Obi's sharp eyes were identifying plants for her by soft curves of moonlight carving the greenhouse into charcoal abstracts. Finally, it came to the point where he would insist that she at least take her book work inside the castle to the library so he could take his place at the night watch, and they would part at last. He would then sit cross-legged on the castle ramparts where he could mull over his day in peace, turning his and the Little Miss' conversations over and over in his mind until he could almost pretend that she was sitting beside him, her legs dangling casually over the castle wall, wrapped in his cloak to ward off the night chill. So would his thoughts go until the changing of the guard came and he slipped into the castle to his quarters to snatch a couple hours of sleep before it started all over again.

The longer he stayed with her each day, the more familiar her presence became until time apart from her felt dreamlike, unreal, and inconsequential. In no time at all, he had become her shadow, and no one could know the palace pharmacist without knowing the limber, unapproachable foreigner at her elbow, too, who smiled when she spoke to him and who strayed as near to her as his restraint allowed when they were alone. The longer he stayed, the more she seemed aware of his presence, asking him if he did, indeed, have to leave at the end of each day, asking him to bring her a book or a certain plant from another greenhouse for the next day, forcing an implied promise out of him that he really would still be there tomorrow, and smiling when he smiled and waiting for him each morning and taking him apart piece by piece until the messenger and the knight and the bodyguard and the lost soul and even the friend fell away, and all that remained was Obi. Just Obi. Just a man. The sensation was so deep, so warm, so addicting, he lost himself all over again every time she so much as said his name.

His simple addiction burrowed down deep into the furthest recesses of his heart, but outwardly, the simplicity remained. He teased her until she fumed like a pretty porcelain pot boiling over. He couldn't stand to touch her, and when he did, accidentally or no, he frowned or apologized or forgot what he was supposed to be doing. He kept track of how long he could keep her laughing without stopping. Once, when he was off his guard, bent over a rudimentary cluster of thyme, her voice wove through the still greenhouse air and she thanked him quietly for saving her life in Tanbarun, and he took the night watch early that day, then laid completely awake in bed afterwards for hours until the sun rose.

He wondered, sometimes, if she knew what he felt about her. He wondered if she knew the lengths he'd gone to to find her, what he still would have done further if that had not been enough (he'd been seriously prepared to cross oceans, deserts, mountains). He wondered if she knew that, in his most private thoughts, she was "Shirayuki," not "Mistress" or "Little Miss" or "Young Mistress." He wondered if she saw straight through him, then realized that she didn't, because he wasn't made of stuff that could be seen through.

He wished she weren't so kind, so soft. He didn't deserve kindness, and so had never received any until he'd met her. So, he fed off of it despite all his reservations, and his guilt knew no bounds. If he could stop, he would. But it was all hopeless, he figured - not all for nothing, certainly, because she could live and be free and be safe because of him - so why stop? (Why begin? "What's the point of chasing after her?")

There were many people, many shadows and spirits and demons and angels, that Obi would gladly sell his soul to if it meant he could hold her, just once. Tell her just one thing in his heart. Tangle himself in her, kiss her until his lungs ached.

The days were long and bright like he never knew they could be, and Obi clung to them for all he was worth.

Then one morning, he was taking notes on new growths of yura shigure on a clipboard bequeathed him by Chief Garrack (sober, to his great astonishment), when Shirayuki backed into the Third Greenhouse with her arms full of a giant pot housing some young sapling, it's yellow-green leaves shivering with her every labored movement. She struggled to lift it high enough to set it on the scuffed worktable behind her. Obi dropped his clipboard, ran over, and quickly lifted the opposite, sagging side of the pot, lifting it nearly right out of her arms.

Her head popped out from behind the huge pot to one side; Obi leaned to the side, too. "Oh! Thanks, Obi!" she gasped breathlessly. Strands of apple-red hair were stuck to her sweaty forehead and flushed cheeks, and he grinned.

"It's nothing, Mistress."

They rotated, then shuffled sideways until they'd lifted the pot safely onto the worktable. It groaned a little under the weight, but Shirayuki wasn't concerned. She wiped the stray strands of hair from her face with the back of her wrist, then unhooked a second clipboard from the edge of the pot and began to peruse it.

Her summer-green eyes tracked back and forth across the notes and statistics scribbled under her pert nose, and even as they moved, she asked, "Did you make any headway with the yura shigure?"

He stretched his arms above his head, watching her face closely because she wasn't looking and he could. "I'm almost done, actually."

She smiled without looking up from the clipboard. "Perfect! That'll take care of the morning for us once I feed this little guy." She set the clipboard down on the worktable and stuck two fingers deep down into the sapling's soil. "Go ahead and finish up with the yura shigure, then I'll see if we can get ahead on the afternoon lineup."

He did as he was told, leaving her to the sapling and taking up his clipboard again. He worked as slowly as he dared, snatching glances of her watering and mixing the sapling's soil, standing on tiptoe on a footstool so she could reach its highest, thinnest branches, laughing with the clear sound of a bell in the wind when he told her he might have little Ryuu start with that sapling when he taught him to climb trees. Sunlight poured in through the greenhouse windows, warming everything.

It was so peaceful, so bright, so gentle, and so, so easy.

Minutes later, Shirayuki materialized at his side, and Obi filled in the last number on his clipboard.

"Are you done?" she asked, peering over his arm to look at his work. It had taken him much longer than it should have, but she didn't comment.

He pinched her nose; she squeaked. "Yep! All done."

She batted his hand aside, flushed and trying to scowl but clearly holding back laughter, and he chuckled and let her take the clipboard from him. Rather than study it, however, she rubbed her nose with her free hand and clutched the board to her chest.

"Obi?"

"Hm?"

"For the rest of today, I'm reviewing medical records. You're not allowed to see them." Her nose apparently recovered, she brushed strands of fiery hair behind one ear. She couldn't seem to meet his eyes like usual. "So... I don't think there's any other work for you today."

Oh. Of course. He tried not to let his shoulders sag, and he waited silently for her to dismiss him.

When she didn't, he still didn't have any words. He turned to go, his mind racing, disappointment evident in his gut and in his steps. He heard her light footsteps on the stone floor, then the clatter of the clipboard as it was set aside.

"Obi."

He paused, then turned, a question in his eyes. She was looking up at him earnestly, her lips just barely parted. Light freckles splashed across her nose and under her bright eyes, dusting her pale skin. He could see ink marks on her wrists and hands where she'd made notes to herself. Dirt was smeared on one corner of her slender jaw.

She reached out and pinched one of his sleeves between her fingers.

"Can you stay?"

He was equal parts amazed and relieved when he didn't come apart at the seams, completely unravel when her grip tightened, her pale brows scrunching together. She ducked her head, frowning.

Heart pounding, he rotated so that they were facing the same way, wondering if he could dislodge her hold with reason alone and wondering how in the world he could possibly answer that question honestly when her hand slid from his sleeve to slip into his gloved hand, her small fingers navigating his and filling in the grooves between them. She squeezed, then shut her eyes.

Obi was burning and freezing to death. He thought he might have squeezed her hand back, but he couldn't be sure because most of his arm had gone completely numb, and then he sucked in a long breath. "What's wrong?"

She raised her head. Her gaze was steady, heavy and reminiscent of that evening in the forest when Obi had been dead and the soldier had been all there was to beg for her forgiveness. "I always feel like you're going to go away," she said quietly. Her thumb raced over the thin leather of his glove, electrifying his hand. "Every day, you're right here, and I can talk to you, but it's like trying to hold on to smoke."

For today, for tomorrow, at least, he wasn't going anywhere.

Obi didn't know how long they stood there, Shirayuki's hand warm in his. Before long, though, she turned into him, stepped into him, and her free arm slipped around his waist, her forehead meeting his chest. Slowly, he released her hand so both his arms could wrap around her. Apple-red hair brushed his jaw and fingers tightened in the back of his shirt. He held her, crushed her closer until their bodies were breathlessly tight together, and they didn't move for a very long time.

Shirayuki is Obi's greatest, most unexpected love, and Obi is her very dearest friend whom she might be starting to love just a little. I love them so much, and yes, they're doomed, but I will never get enough of them! I just want more Obi, more of him and Shirayuki... more pain... T_T I have a problem. This manga is beautiful.

I hope you enjoyed it, and please review!

-ISM