Nagira Syunji is anything but stupid.

                His life is tailor-made to intelligent things. He is the essence of clever, everything that he says and does exactly fit to every circumstance. He goes on hunches and breaks the rules whenever he wants, because he is a man of instinct, who knows where the risks are, what streets are watched, who's been tapped and who's been tapped, what costs what, and everything simultaneously, neatly, effortlessly filed away into that efficient bit of gray matter that's inexplicably kept him in one piece through it all. He hasn't taken an unnecessary chance in at least ten years, hasn't even considered one in five. As a lawyer he is good, as a friend he is valuable, and as an informant he's priceless. His ideals are sketchy, his friendships mostly short and cash-based, business is booming generally on the wrong side of the fence, he dresses like a 1950s American pimp, and his lovers are as a rule hired or only temporarily in town, but as a confidence man he's God, and by God, but he must be the nerviest, smartest fucking man alive to still be breathing.

                He thinks about this, Nagira Syunji does, as he lies there in bed, drapes pulled against the rain and the door locked against questions, her skin smooth against his. He thinks about it as he reaches for the blanket, because she shivers just a little at the cool air. He thinks about it as he stares at her, watches her, that small, delicate head resting so lightly on his shoulder, his left arm about her tiny body, his right folded beneath the pillow. He thinks about it as he contemplates her (closed) butterfly green eyes, her feathery hair, out of that ridiculous hairstyle, tickling along his neck, her thin, fine mouth, and her still rather small but beautifully formed breasts. Her naked body and his naked body, and he thinks about it as he carefully maneuvers his heavier bones down the mattress while not waking her up to try kissing her on the mouth for the first time.

                He tries not—for the first time in many, many a year—to think about the way she moves against him, about the way she gasps so sweetly when he does this, about the way she clings to him when he does that, about the way his disjointed, incoherent life in all its entirety could never make so much sense as the last hour did—doesn't think about the way her lips opened and closed with a noiseless Amon.

                He doesn't think about doubts, about her low, hesitant voice, about life and life harboring witches, about the way she looks at his half-brother, or about the one time his half-brother really looked at her.

                Nagira Syunji thinks, 28 – 15 = 13.

                Reads like stupid.

A/N: Because this is the Romance That Should Have Happened But Didn't, goddammit. Poop on Amon. D