Strength
Hey-Diddle-Diddle

She's stronger than him. If it really came down to it, she could probably wipe the floor with his face, and they both know it, but now, in times like this, when he's holding her up and her legs are wrapped around his waist, that doesn't matter. His hands are so much bigger than hers, spread over her back, and she feels like he's holding all of her, and she likes that feeling, likes belonging to him. He's swinging her around in the room and there's music playing from the TV, and he's laughing, just laughing and laughing and laughing, and God, but does she love this man.

"Iruka," she tries to say, but she's laughing too, "put me down."

He swings her again and she clings tighter to him, laughing harder. Her hair's down, and she doesn't know when he'd pulled the ties out, but his hair's down too, so maybe it's alright. As she's twirled she lets her head fall back, and her face is covered in her hair and his, and it looks so similar, so dark and shiny.

"You're back," he mumbles against her throat as he spins her one last time, then sets her down. She sits, dizzy, and he kneels next to her, his nose pressed against her hair. "You're back, you're finally back."

He sounds so young when he says this, his big hands wrapped around her waist and pulling her tight against him, and she pets his hair, smoothing it back from his eyes.

"I'm back," she assures him, and he nestles closer to her. She doesn't know why he waits for her when it hurts him so much, when he's always so sure she won't come back again. It hurts her, leaving him for weeks on end, and to know that he's at home, watching the door, to know that he's hurting, but then, when he laughs like this when she comes through the door, it feels better. To have someone waiting for her means so much and she scoots forward, climbing into his lap, helped by his wandering hands. "You're such a pervert," she says and he laughs again, holding her and holding her and just holding her, and she feels alive when his arms are wrapped around her like this, fingers rubbing circles against her back.

"I missed you," he says as though it's an excuse, and maybe it is. "Kakashi was following me all week, wouldn't leave me alone."

She kisses his cheek, a peck here, another peck there, and a lingering brush of lips against his. "Do I need to protect my 'Ruka's virtue?" she asks, and he kisses her back, hard at first, then softer. His arms loosen around her body until he's nothing but gentleness.

"Who's virtue?" he asks against the corner of her mouth and her eyes slide shut. It doesn't matter that she could beat him ten ways from Sunday in a fight, that she's faster than him, stronger than him, because he waits for her, just like he's waited for everyone else who never returned. He waits, watching the door, like he'd waited for his parents, his team, his friends, and everytime when she comes home he laughs, tears in his eyes. And that makes him stronger than Anko can ever hope to be. And God, but does she love him.


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