#anyway rica here's the fluff i owe u watch this break your soul again anyway

[restcre-blog]

‘can i touch you?’

it was the wrong time, even if we were right. 

                                                                 genji.

It was one of Genji’s better days, of this Angela was sure, because upon entering her office he had placed a prepackaged lunch from the headquarters cafeteria upon her desk and informed her that eating was important. The unforced calm of his announcement had surprised her just as much as the food. Still, she had offered him a grin in return for his efforts and took the time to set her work aside—just for now—so that she could eat the proffered food.

Silence passed as she enjoyed her meal, the sandwich and juice accompanied with it having refreshed her energy levels. It was amazing what a simple  break to refuel could do for the human body, and despite her role as a doctor it was something she often forgot in regards to herself. Genji was by no means her minder: when he visited, he seemed to dare not fathom telling her what she should or should not do. He was quiet, always aware of his boundaries. It made his gift all the more extraordinary.

When the matter of food was aside, she’d taken up her notebook once again to review and revise some of her notes she’d taken the previous night in the lab. Genji spoke, then—simple matters. Questions about her day, how her projects fared, and how she was feeling after the recent bout of allergies she’d suffered due to the turn of the weather. The week prior she’d startled a laugh out of him with an unexpected squeak of a sneeze. It was a memory she cherished, now. How rare to see the cyborg smile, let alone laugh!

Angela humored him, paying less attention to her work than she should have. Inquiries as to his missions and welfare were promptly returned, and while he seemed to wade through them like a lost duck, the dark waves rolled off of him and didn’t quite breach the lull of their conversation. When he expressed interest in some of the more complex nuances of her research, she’d gestured for him to come over—flattered he would ask despite much of the jargon going over his head.

He’d leaned his back against her desk by her side, peering down at her clumsy scrawl with little comprehension. It was a jumble of German and English meshed together that made hardly any sense to anyone but her. In contrast, the concepts she’d sketched for an improved version of her staff were quite elegant—paired with the imagery, her explanations managed to form something close to coherency. Enough that he’d nodded along to her excited babbles.

Another comfortable quiet settled between them as—engaged as she’d been displaying her notes to him—she noticed an error in her work and began to rectify it immediately. She chewed on the inside of her cheek, red pen scribbling furiously, when she noticed the glint of metal in her peripheral vision. Looking up, blonde locks of hair slipped over her face and into her eyes; something a quick puff of air did little to remedy. Genji’s prosthetic arm hovered midair. For the first time since he arrived, he seemed uncertain.

Can I touch you? He asked her after several moments, and were she not caught so off guard her cheeks might have flushed. Angela blinked rapidly, lips parted in surprise before she shook herself from her stupor and smiled. Despite any inner turmoil, the young Shimada knew how to treat women with respect.

“Of course,” she replied gently, trusting him.

There was a moment more of Genji’s reluctance, and when his arm dropped it seemed he’d changed his mind altogether. To her continued amazement, he proved her wrong. Warm, human fingers grazed the skin of her cheek carefully as the ninja plucked a piece of a broken leaf from her hair. Judging by the greenery of it, it was from the potted plant she’d watered in this very office just hours earlier. 

Angela gave an embarrassed laugh, reaching up as if to brush her hair back, unaware he’d already beaten her to it. Her heart gave a sudden jump as she felt his fingers tuck the silken strands behind her ear, lingering a moment longer than he perhaps needed to.

Suddenly far too aware of her skin, Angela was unsure if she was relieved or disappointed when Genji pulled back—the distance between them growing as he rounded the desk to return to his usual perch on the nearby chair. She swallowed thickly, looking down at her notes.

They might as well have been in Japanese for all she could understand them right now.

“Thank you, Genji,” she murmured.