Go listen to "Strangers When We Meet," by David Bowie if you want the musical mood of this fic. Here's to hoping this inspires...

He always got up before she did. It didn't matter if he was sick, which was rarely, or if he had returned from a mission late in the night, or if they'd kept one another up for hours, he was always awake before she was. He was usually out of bed before she even realized the body next to her had awoken. Various things happened after he got up—sometimes he would shower, other mornings he did flexibility stretches, once in a while he would just get dressed and lay back down next to her, staring at the ceiling.

It was these mornings, these few mornings, she was glad that her parents had sheltered her so well. She hadn't known who he was until she'd met him, and even then had known nothing of his reputation until weeks into training with him. It was because of this that she had formed her initial opinions of him as a person rather than an idol. The mornings where he only got dressed made her realize that while she knew him now, they had been strangers for much of their acquaintance, even early into their relationship.

He was a peaceful man who understood his place in the world, and she sometimes resented him for it. She felt so lost, so often. Part of her was glad because their early interactions had forced her to answer these questions on her own, rather than relying on him as her crutch. But that was only a part. The other part continued to puzzle, wonder what life would have been like if she had met him already knowing him.

She knew what it would be like, however, because she knew what it was like when people met her already knowing her. A quick smile, a nervous laugh, and then an attempt to flee the scene. Looking at his lanky body laid out next to hers, attired in all of his gear—he must be leaving on a mission today—she knew that her relationship with him wouldn't have ever happened. First impressions were hard to change, she knew that better than most. It's why she got up once he had, guilty at seeming to be lazy.

She usually started breakfast after he left the bed. They always had the same thing for breakfast, rolled omelets, rice, and a spot of soup. On the mornings where he went to shower she would sit at the kitchen table and clean her nails before starting breakfast. The mornings when he stretched she wrapped herself in whatever was handy before shuffling to the kitchen. When he lay back down beside her in bed she would curl up to his side and close her eyes, breathing him in.

His eyes would remain on the ceiling, but a hand would sweep through her hair and across her back. Neither her shiver nor goose bumps would spark a comment, but his fingertips would trace deliberate patterns into her shoulder blades, and if she looked at his face she usually saw a serene set to his mouth. After many years and many struggles, they were together, and he was glad for it.

She was glad for it as well.

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