AN: Asuma/Kurenai, for an anonymouse on LJ. Fluff, no spoilers.

Breathe in. A subtle flowery scent, soap and shampoo overlying something deeper, something warm and perfect and unique.

These nights are nothing new—fingers tangled in her wild hair (soft against calloused fingers), mouth on hers (pliant and warm, tasting of lipstick and warm sake and Kurenai), skin against skin (whether it's just her cheek pressed against his, or the swell of her breast filling his hand).

It's always like this, something familiar and comforting and easy, something with no words spoken, no uncertainties exchanged. She fits herself against him, slipping elegant arms around his waist, tucking her head under his jaw, and he holds her tight, burying his face in her hair and breathing her in.

This is not something new or unfamiliar, but he can't help but be a little amazed, a little awed every time. This is how it will go, lying together in the darkness, and they will wake with the sun, tangled together like parts of a puzzle, and she will smile up at him (half-awake, red eyes hooded, sun playing across her face, gilding her skin), and he will feel that funny twist in his chest that he knows is love (even if he can't quite choke out the words, she already knows, he can see it in those eyes).

Their world is framed by danger, defined by uncertainty, drowned in violence. He's watched her kill (blood on those hands, and she washes it off every time), and he knows that there is no mystery to this, for he's killed, too, and he knows how little it really changes.

There are the bad missions, of course, when she folds in on herself and weeps (she cries silently, holding it all inside so that only the tears come out), when he falls and feels like he'll never get up again (but he does, he always does).

She asks him once if he wants children (wrapped in his arms, all sun-warmed skin and half-hidden curves), and he wonders if he should kiss her, if he should ask what she means by that, if he should just answer her (yes, he wants to meet their child someday, and the idea makes his head spin and his hands shake) and let it stand at that.

Somehow, she already knows, red lips curving in that mysterious little smile she has. She winds her fingers in his and moves both their hands to rest over her belly.

And he understands suddenly (and his hands tremble before he tightens his grasp on her hand), and he opens his mouth to ask something stupid (when, maybe, or how, or why me, or what do we do now, or will you marry me) and can't, because she's already kissing him, soft and with a thread of hesitancy he doesn't understand.

She draws back, and there's uncertainty in her eyes.

This is something he can fix. He kisses her, and again, and again. Thank you, he murmurs against her lips. Thank you, thank you, thank you. He kisses her until she's smiling again, until she's breathless and almost laughing, slumped against him.

It's not a pretty place, this world they live in, and he's not sure how wise it is to bring another life into it, just now, with everything so uncertain (teetering on the edge of something, he can almost taste it), but him and wisdom never had much more than a passing acquaintance in the first place.

Tomorrow, he will think. They will talk, and they will worry, and they will try to figure this out. Tomorrow, they will have to be practical.

But for now, he can sit here, with his arms around Kurenai and marvel at the idea of a child, their child, something tiny and perfect and new. He can watch the sunset with his hands resting over Kurenai's belly and imagine that he can sense the new life beneath warm skin.

He can't imagine being happier.

Endnotes: This kinda broke my heart to write, just so's you know. If anyone needs me, I'll be curled up in the corner with happycrack or something.