THE GHOST IN THE SHELL \\
It's the soft and the hard: tools of murder, and the mundane. Perhaps a strange gift for a girl of seventeen, but she has revenge to exact, vengeance and payback to visit on someone.
And besides, she needs something better to practice throwing with.
The claw clutching at Aamu's chest relaxes, eases back, when he catches a glimpse of her smile. It's in the way her cheeks change, the way she's drawing up her knees and hiding behind them, as if the world can't know what a lovely and radiant smile she has. The corner of Aamu's mouth quirks and he hides it by looking down at his hands, clasped together and held in front of him. "I'm glad you like them," he says, quiet but carrying over the occasional hiss from the forge.
Then he puts his hands against the counter he's leaning against (quickly checking over one shoulder that it's clear) and lifts himself onto it, dangling his feet and placing her gift in his lap. He's touched that she cares at all—cares enough to want to give him something.
Carefully he unwraps it, until he sits there with a whetstone in one hand and a small knife in the other. They're very thoughtful gifts for someone like him, and he looks up with a small, touched smile. "Thank you," he echoes her sincerely, putting down the whetstone and feeling the balance and make of the dagger. "They're very nice gifts."
And besides, she needs something better to practice throwing with.
The claw clutching at Aamu's chest relaxes, eases back, when he catches a glimpse of her smile. It's in the way her cheeks change, the way she's drawing up her knees and hiding behind them, as if the world can't know what a lovely and radiant smile she has. The corner of Aamu's mouth quirks and he hides it by looking down at his hands, clasped together and held in front of him. "I'm glad you like them," he says, quiet but carrying over the occasional hiss from the forge.
Then he puts his hands against the counter he's leaning against (quickly checking over one shoulder that it's clear) and lifts himself onto it, dangling his feet and placing her gift in his lap. He's touched that she cares at all—cares enough to want to give him something.
Carefully he unwraps it, until he sits there with a whetstone in one hand and a small knife in the other. They're very thoughtful gifts for someone like him, and he looks up with a small, touched smile. "Thank you," he echoes her sincerely, putting down the whetstone and feeling the balance and make of the dagger. "They're very nice gifts."
